BY  JACOB 'A-RIl 


Ex  SItbrtjs 


SEYMOUR  DURST 


'When  you  leave,  please  leave  this  hook 

Because  it  has  been  said 
"Ever  thing  comes  t'  him  who  waits 

Except  a  loaned  hook." 


Avery  Architectl  r.\l  and  Fine  Arts  Libr.\ry 
Gift  of  Seymour  B.  Durst  Old  York  Library 


THE  MAKING  OF  AN  AMERICAN 


•Tl 
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THE  MACMILLAN  COMPANY 

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THE  MACMILLAN  CO.  OF  CANADA,  Ltd. 


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JACOB  A.  RIIS 


THE  MAKING  OF 
AN  AMERICAN 


BY 

JACOB  A.  RIIS 

AUTHOR  OF   "how  THE   OTHER  HALF   LIVES,"   "A  TEN 
YEARS^  WAR,"  "  OUT  OF  MULBERRY  STREET,"  ETC. 


THE  MACMILLAN  COMPANY 

LONDON:  MACMILLAN  &  CO.,  Ltd, 
1919 
All  rights  reserved 


Copyright,  looi, 
By  the  outlook  COMPANY. 


Copyright,  1901, 
By  the  MACMILLAN  COMPANY. 


Set  up  and  electrotyped.    Published  November,  i 


Nortoooti  Press 
J.  S.  Cushing  Co.  ~  Berwick  &  Smith  Co. 
Norwood,  Mass.,  U.S.A. 


TO 


TO  THE  READER 

The  papers  which  form  this  autobiography  were  originally 
published  in  The  Outlook,  the  chapter  telling  of  my  going  '^home 
to  mother"  in  The  Churchman,  and  parts  of  one  or  two  others  in 
The  Century  Magazine.  To  those  who  have  been  asking  if  they 
are  made-up  stories,  let  me  say  here  that  they  are  not.  And  I 
am  mighty  glad  they  are  not.  I  would  not  have  missed  being 
in  it  all  for  anything. 

J.  A.  R. 

Richmond  Hill,  N.  Y., 
October,  1901. 


vii 


CONTENTS 

CHAPTER  I 

PAGE 

The  Meeting  on  the  Long  Bridge    .       .       .       .       .  1 
CHAPTER  II 

I  Land  in  New  York  and  Take  a  Hand  in  the  Game  .  21 

CHAPTER  III 

I  Go  to  War  at  Last,  and  Sow  the  Seed  of  Future 

Campaigns  36 

CHAPTER  IV 

Working  and  Wandering  49 

CHAPTER  V 

/  Go  INTO  Business  64 

CHAPTER  VI 

In  which  I  Become  an  Editor  and  Receive  my  First 

Love  Letter  80 

CHAPTER  VII 

EiJZABETH  Tells  Her  Story  98 

ix 


X 


CONTENTS 


CHAPTER  VIII 

PAGE 

Early  Married  Life  ;  I  Become  an  Advertising  Bureau  ; 

ON  THE    Tribune"  113 

CHAPTER  IX 

Life  in  Mulberry  Street  130 

CHAPTER  X 

My  Dog  is  Avenged  152 

CHAPTER  XI 

The  Bend  is  Laid  by  the  Heels  171 

CHAPTER  XII 

I  Become  an  Author  and  Resume  my  Interrupted  Carler 

AS  A  Lecturer  192 

CHAPTER  XIII 
Roosevelt  Comes  —  Mulberry  Street's  Golden  Age     .  210 

CHAPTER  XIV 
I  Try  to  Go  to  the  War  for  the  Third  and  Last  Time  232 

CHAPTER  XV 

When  I  Went  Home  to  Mother  253 

CHAPTER  XVI 
The  American  Made    .       .       .      .      .      .      .      .  271 


INTRODUCTION  BY  THEODORE  ROOSEVELT 


It  is  difficult  for  me  to  write  of  Jacob  Riis  only  from  the  public 
standpoint.  He  was  one  of  my  truest  and  closest  friends.  I 
have  ever  prized  the  fact  that  once,  in  speaking  of  me,  he  said, 

Since  I  met  him  he  has  been  my  brother.''  I  have  not  only 
admired  and  respected  him  beyond  measure,  but  I  have  loved 
him  dearly,  and  I  mourn  him  as  if  he  were  one  of  my  own  family. 

But  this  has  little  to  do  wdth  what  I  wish  to  say.  Jacob  Riis 
was  one  of  those  men  who  b}^  his  writings  contributed  most  to 
raising  the  standard  of  unselfishness,  of  disinterestedness,  of  sane 
and  kindly  good  citizenship,  in  this  country.  But  in  addition 
to  this  he  was  one  of  the  few^  great  wTiters  for  clean  and  decent 
living  and  for  upright  conduct  who  was  also  a  great  doer.  He 
never  wTote  sentences  which  he  did  not  in  good  faith  try  to  act 
whenever  he  could  find  the  opportunity  for  action.  He  was  em- 
phatically a  '^doer  of  the  word,"  and  not  either  a  mere  hearer  or 
a  mere  preacher.  Moreover,  he  was  one  of  those  good  men  whose 
goodness  was  free  from  the  least  taint  of  priggishness  or  self- 
righteousness.  He  had  a  white  soul;  but  he  had  the  keenest 
sympathy  for  his  brethren  who  stumbled  and  fell.  He  had  the 
most  flaming  intensity  of  passion  for  righteousness,  but  he,  also 
had  kindhness  and  a  most  humorously  human  way  of  looking  at 
life  and  a  sense  of  companionship  with  his  fellows.  He  did  not 
come  to  this  country  until  he  was  almost  a  young  man ;  but  if 
I  were  asked  to  name  a  fellow-man  who  came  nearest  to  being 
the  ideal  American  citizen,  I  should  name  Jacob  Riis. 

—  From  The  Outlook,  June  6,  1914. 


xi 


THE  MAKING  OF  AN  AMERICAN 


CILiPTER  I 
The  Meeting  on  the  Long  Bridge 

On  the  outskirts  of  the  ancient  town  of  Ribe,  on  the  Danish 
north  seacoast,  a  wooden  bridge  spanned  the  Nibs  River  when  I 
was  a  boy  —  a  frail  structure,  with  twdn  arches  hke  the  humps  of 
a  dromedary,  for  boats  to  go  under.  Upon  it  my  story  begins. 
The  bridge  is  long  since  gone.  The  grass-grown  lane  that  knew 
our  romping  feet  leads  nowhere  now.  But  in  my  memory  it  is 
all  as  it  was  that  day  nearly  forty  years  ago,  and  it  is  always 
summer  there.  The  bees  are  droning  among  the  forget-me-nots 
that  grow  along  shore,  and  the  swans  arch  their  necks  in  the 
limpid  stream.  The  clatter  of  the  mill-wheel  down  at  the  dam 
comes  up  with  drowsy  hum ;  the  sweet  smells  of  meadow  and 
field  are  in  the  air.    On  the  bridge  a  boy  and  a  girl  have  met. 

He  whistles  a  tune,  boy-fashion,  with  worsted  jacket  slung 
across  his  arm,  on  his  way  home  from  the  carpenter  shop  to  his 
midday  meal.  When  she  has  passed  he  stands  looking  after 
her,  all  the  music  gone  out  of  him.  At  the  other  end  of  the 
bridge  she  turns  with  the  feehng  that  he  is  looking,  and,  when 
she  sees  that  he  is,  goes  on  with  a  little  toss  of  her  pretty  head. 
As  she  stands  one  brief  moment  there  with  the  roguish  look,  she 
is  to  stand  in  his  heart  forever  —  a  sweet  girlish  figure,  in  jacket 

B  1 


2 


THE  MAKING  OF  AN  AMERICAN 


of  gray,  black-embroidered,  with  schoolbooks  and  pretty  bronzed 
boots  — 

*'With  tassels!''  says  my  wife,  maliciously  —  she  has  been 
looking  over  my  shoulder.  Well,  \vith  tassels !  What  then  ? 
Did  I  not  worship  a  pair  of  boots  with  tassels  which  I  passed  in 
a  shop  \\dndow  in  Copenliagen  eyery  day  for  a  whole  year, 
because  they  were  the  only  other  pair  I  ever  saw?  I  don't 
know  —  there  may  have  been  more ;  perhaps  others  wore  them. 
I  know  she  did.  Curls  she  had,  too  —  curls  of  yellow  gold. 
Why  do  girls  not  have  curls  these  days?  It  is  such  a  rare  thing 
to  see  them,  that  when  you  do  you  feel  like  walking  behind  them 
miles  and  miles  just  to  feast  j^our  eyes.  Too  much  bother,  says 
my  daughter.  Bother?  Why,  I  have  carried  one  of  your 
mother's,  miss !  all  these  —  there,  I  shall  not  say  how  long  — 
and  carry  it  still.    Bother?    Great  Scott! 

And  is  this  going  to  be  a  love  story,  then?  Well,  I  have 
turned  it  over  and  over,  and  looked  at  it  from  every  angle,  but 
if  I  am  to  tell  the  truth,  as  I  promised,  I  don't  see  how  it  can  be 
helped.  If  I  am  to  do  that,  I  must  begin  at  the  Long  Bridge. 
T  stepped  on  it  that  day  a  boy,  and  came  off  it  with  the  fixed 
purpose  of  a  man.  How  I  stuck  to  it  is  part  of  the  story  —  the 
best  part,  to  my  thinking;  and  I  ought  to  know,  seeing  that  our 
silver  wedding  comes  this  March.  Silver  wedding,  humph  !  She 
isn't  a  week  older  than  the  day  I  married  her  —  not  a  week.  It 
was  all  in  the  way  of  her  that  I  came  here ;  though  at  the  time  I 
am  speaking  of  I  rather  guessed  than  knew  it  was  Elizabeth. 
She  Hved  over  there  beyond  the  bridge.  We  had  been  children 
together.  I  suppose  I  had  seen  her  a  thousand  times  before 
without  noticing.  In  school  I  had  heard  the  boys  trading  in 
her  for  marbles  and  brass  buttons  as  a  partner  at  dances  and 
games  —  generally  trading  off  the  other  girls  for  her.  She  was 
such  a  pretty  dancer !  I  was  not.  ''Soldiers  and  robbers"  was 
more  to  my  taste".    That  any  girl,  with  curls  or  without,  should 


THE  MEETING  OX  THE  LONG  BRIDGE 


3 


be  worth  a  good  marble,  or  a  regimental  button  with  a  sound 
eye,  that  could  be  strung,  was  rank  foolishness  to  me  until  that 
day  on  the  bridge. 

And  now  I  shall  have  to  recross  it  after  all,  to  tell  who  and 
what  we  were,  that  we  may  start  fair.  I  shall  have  to  go  slow, 
too,  for  back  of  that  day  everything  seems  very  indistinct  and 
strange.  A  few  things  stand  out  more  clearly  than  the  rest. 
The  day,  for  instance,  when  I  was  first  dragged  off  to  school  by 
an  avenging  housemaid  and  thrust  howling  into  an  empty  hogs- 
head by  the  ogre  of  a  schoolmarm,  who,  when  she  had  put  the 
lid  on,  gnashed  her  yellow  teeth  at  the  bunghole  and  told  me 
that  so  bad  boys  were  dealt  with  in  school.  At  recess  she  had 
me  up  to  the  pig-pen  in  the  yard  as  a  further  warning.  The  pig 
had  a  slit  in  the  ear.  It  was  for  being  lazy,  she  explained,  and 
showed  me  the  shears.  Boys  were  no  better  than  pigs.  Some 
were  worse ;  then  —  a  jab  at  the  air  with  the  scissors  told  the 
rest.  Poor  father!  He  was  a  schoolmaster,  too;  how  much 
sorrow  it  might  have  spared  him  had  he  known  of  this!  But 
we  were  too  scared  to  tell,  I  suppose.  He  had  set  his  heart  upon 
my  taking  up  his  calhng,  and  I  hated  the  school  from  the  day  I 
first  saw  it.  Small  wond^.  The  only  study  he  succeeded  in 
interesting  me  in  was  English,  because  Charles  Dickens's  paper, 
All  the  Year  Round,  came  to  the  house  with  stories  ever  so  much 
more  alluring  than  the  tedious  grammar.  He  was  of  the  old 
dispensation,  wedded  to  the  old  ways.  But  the  short  cut  I  took 
to  knowledge  in  that  branch  I  think  opened  his  eyes  to  some 
things  ahead  of  his  time.  Their  day  had  not  yet  come.  He 
hved  to  see  it  daw^n  and  was  glad.  I  know  how  he  felt  about  it. 
I  myself  have  lived  down  the  day  of  the  hogshead  in  the  child-hfe 
of  New  York.  Some  of  the  schools  our  women  made  an  end  of 
a  few  years  ago  weren't  much  better.  To  help  clean  them  out 
was  like  getting  square  with  the  ogre  that  plagued  my  childhood. 

I  mind,  too,  my  first  colhsion  with  the  tenement.    There  was 


4 


THE  MAKING  OF  AN  AMERICAN 


just  one,  and  it  stood  over  against  the  castle  hill,  separated  from 
it  only  by  the  dry  moat.  We  called  it  Rag  Hall,  and  I  guess  it 
deserved  the  name.  Ribe  was  a  very  old  town.  Five  hundred 
years  ago  or  so  it  had  been  the  seat  of  the  fighting  kings,  when 
Denmark  was  a  power  to  be  reckoned  with.  There  they  were 
handy  when  trouble  broke  out  with  the  German  barons  to  the 
south.  But  the  times  changed,  and  of  all  its  greatness  there 
remained  to  Ribe  only  its  famed  cathedral,  with  eight  centuries 
upon  its  hoary  head,  and  its  Latin  School.  Of  the  castle  of  the 
Valdemars  there  was  left  only  this  green  hill  with  solemn  sheep 
browsing  upon  it  and  ba-a-a-ing  into  the  sunset.  In  the  moats, 
where  once  ships  sailed  in  from  the  sea,  great  billowy  masses  of 
reeds  ever  bent  and  swayed  under  the  west  wind  that  swept 
over  the  meadows.  They  grew  much  taller  than  our  heads, 
and  we  boys  loved  to  play  in  them,  to  track  the  tiger  or  the 
grizzly  to  its  lair,  not  without  creeping  shudders  at  the  peril 
that  might  lie  in  ambush  at  the  next  turn;  or,  hidden  deep 
down  among  them,  we  lay  and  watched  the  white  clouds  go 
overhead  and  Ustened  to  the  reeds  whispering  of  the  great  days 
and  deeds  that  were. 

The  castle  hill  was  the  only  high  ground  about  the  town.  It 
was  said  in  some  book  of  travel  that  one  might  see  twenty-four 
miles  in  any  direction  from  Ribe,  lying  flat  on  one's  back ;  but 
that  was  drawing  the  long  bow.  Flat  the  landsca'pe  was, 
undenirbly.  From  the  top  of  the  castle  hill  we  could  see  the 
sun  setting  upon  the  sea,  and  the  islands  lying  high  in  fine 
weather,  as  if  floating  in  the  air,  the  Nibs  winding  its  silvery  way 
through  the  green  fields.  Not  a  tree,  hardly  a  house,  hindered 
the  view.  It  was  grass,  all  grass,  for  miles,  to  the  sand  dunes 
and  the  beach.  Strangers  went  into  ecstasy  over  the  little 
woodland  patch  down  by  the  Long  Bridge,  and  very  sweet  and 
pretty  it  was ;  but  to  me,  who  was  born  there,  the  wide  view  to 
the  sea,  the  green  meadows,  with  the  lonesome  flight  of  the 


THE  MEETING  ON  THE  LONG  BRIDGE  5 


j  shore-birds  and  the  curlew's  call  in  the  night-watches,  were 
dearer  far,  with  all  their  melancholy.  More  than  mountains 
in  their  majesty  ;  more,  infinitely  more,  than  the  city  of  teeming 
milHons  with  all  its  wealth  and  might;  they  seem  to  me  to  typify 
human  freedom  and  the  struggle  for  it.  Thence  came  the  vikings 
that  roved  the  seas,  serving  no  man  as  master ;  and  through  the 
dark  ages  of  feudalism  no  lord  long  bent  the  neck  of  those  'stout 
yeomen  to  the  yoke.  Germany,  forgetting  honor,  treaties,  and 
history,  is  trying  to  do  it  now  in  Slesvig,  south  of  the  Nibs,  and 
she  will  as  surely  fail.  The  day  of  long-delayed  justice,  when 
dynasties  by  the  grace  of  God  shall  have  been  replaced  by 
government  by  right  of  the  people,  will  find  them  unconquered 
still. 

Alas  !  I  am  afraid  that  thirty  years  in  the  land  of  my  children's 
birth  have  left  me  as  much  of  a  Dane  as  ever.  I  no  sooner  climb 
the  castle  hill  than  I  am  fighting  tooth  and  nail  the  hereditary 
foes  of  my  people  whom  it  was  built  high  to  bar.  Yet,  would 
you  have  it  otherwise  ?  What  sort  of  a  husband  is  the  man  go- 
ing to  make  who  begins  by  pitching  his  old  mother  out  of  the 
door  to  make  room  for  his  wife  ?  And  what  sort  of  a  wife  would 
she  be  to  ask  or  to  stand  it  ? 

But  I  was  speaking  of  the  tenement  by  the  mote.  It  was  a 
ramshackle,  two-story  affnir  with  shiftless  tenants  and  ragged 
children.  Looking  back  now,  I  think  likely  it  was  the  contrast 
of  its  desolation  with  the  green  hill  and  the  fields  I  loved,  of  its 
darkness  and  human  misery  and  inefficiency  vnth  the  valiant 
fighting  men  of  my  boyish  dreams,  that  so  impressed  me.  I 
believe  it  because  it  is  so  now.  Over  against  the  tenement  that 
we  fight  in  our  cities  ever  rises  in  my  mind  the  fields,  the  woods, 
God's  open  sky,  as  accuser  and  witness  that  His  temple  is  being 
so  defiled,  man  so  dwarfed  in  body  and  soul. 

I  know  that  Rag  Hall  displeased  me  very  much.  I  presume 
there  must  have  been  something  of  an  inquiring  Yankee  twdst 


6 


THE  MAKING  OF  AN  AMERICAN 


to  my  make-up,  for  the  boys  called  me  ''Jacob  the  delver/' 
mainly  because  of  my  constant  bothering  with  the  sewerage  of 
our  house,  which  was  of  the  most  primitive  kind.  An  open 
gutter  that  was  full  of  rats  led  under  the  house  to  the  likewise 
open  gutter  of  the  street.  That  was  all  there  was  of  it,  and  very 
bad  it  was ;  but  it  had  always  been  so,  and  as,  consequently,  it 
could  not  be  otherwise,  my  energies  spent  themselves  in  unend- 
ing warfare  with  those  rats,  whose  nests  choked  the  gutter.  I 
could  hardly  have  been  over  twelve  or  thirteen  when  Rag  Hall 
•  challenged  my  resentment.  My  methods  in  deaUng  with  it  had 
at  least  the  merit  of  directness,  if  they  added  nothing  to  the  sum 
of  human  knowledge  or  happiness.  I  had  received  a  ''mark,'^ 
which  was  a  coin  like  our  silver  quarter,  on  Christmas  Eve,  and 
I  hied  myself  to  Rag  Hall  at  once  to  divide  it  with  the  poorest 
family  there,  on  the  express  condition  that  they  should  tidy  up 
things,  especially  those  children,  and  generally  change  their  way 
of  living.  The  man  took  the  money  —  I  have  a  vague  recol- 
lection of  seeing  a  stunned  look  on  his  face  —  and,  I  believe, 
brought  it  back  to  our  house  to  see  if  it  was  all  right,  thereby'- 
giving  me  great  offence.  But  he  did  the  best  for  himself  that 
way,  for  so  Rag  Hall  came  under  the  notice  of  my  mother  too. 
And  there  really  was  some  whitewashing  done,  and  the  children 
were  cleaned  up  for  a  season.  So  that  the  eight  skilhng  were, 
if  not  wisely,  yet  well  invested,  after  all. 

No  doubt  Christmas  had  something  to  do  with  it.  Poverty 
and  misery  always  seem  to  jar  more  at  the  time  when  the  whole 
world  makes  merry.  We  took  an  entire  week  off  to  keep  Christ- 
mas in.  Till  after  New  Year's  Day  no  one  thought  of  anything 
else.  The  "  Holy  Eve  "  was  the  greatest  of  the  year.  Then  the 
Domkirke  shone  with  a  thousand  wax  candles  that  made  the 
gloom  in  the  deep  recesses  behind  the  granite  pillars  seem  deeper 
still,  and  brought  out  the  picture  of  the  Virgin  Mary  and  her 
child,  long  hidden  under  the  whitewash  of  the  Reformation, 


THE  MEETING  OX  THE  LONG  BRIDGE  7 


and  so  preserved  to  our  da\'  by  the  ver^^  means  taken  to  destroy 
it.  The  people  sang  the  dear  old  hymns  about  the  child  cradled 
in  the  manger,  and  mother's  tears  fell  in  her  hymn  book.  Dear 
old  mother !  She  had  a  house  full,  and  little  enough  to  manage 
with  ;  but  never  one  went  hungry  or  unhelped  from  her  door.  I 
am  a  behever  in  organized,  systematic  charity  upon  the  evidence 
of  my  senses ;  but  —  I  am  glad  we  have  that  one  season  in  which 
we  can  forget  our  principles  and  err  on  the  side  of  mercy,  that 
little  corner  in  the  days  of  the  dying  year  for  sentiment  and  no 
questions  asked.  Xo  need  to  be  afraid.  It  is  safe.  Christmas 
charity  never  corrupts.  Love  keeps  it  sweet  and  good  —  the 
love  He  brought  into  the  world  at  Christmas  to  temper  the  hard 
reason  of  man.  Let  it  loose  for  that  httle  spell.  Januar}^  comes 
soon  enough  with  its  long  cold.  Always  it  seems  to  me  the 
longest  month  in  the  year.    It  is  so  far  to  another  Christmas ! 

To  say  that  Ribe  was  an  old  toT\m  hardly  describes  it  to 
readers  at  this  day.  A  town  might  be  old  and  yet  have  kept 
step  with  time.  In  my  day  Ribe  had  not .  It  had  never  changed 
its  step  or  its  ways  since  whale-oil  lanterns  first  hung  in  iron 
chains  across  its  ':obblestone-paved  streets  to  light  them  at 
night.  There  they  hung  yet,  every  rusty  link  squeaking  dole- 
fulh^  in  the  wdnd  that  never  ceased  blowing  from  the  sea.  Coal- 
oil,  just  come  from  America,  was  regarded  as  a  dangerous  inno- 
vation. I  remember  buying  a  bottle  of  ^^Pennsjdvania  oil"  at 
the  grocer's  for  eight  skilHng,  as  a  doubtful  domestic  experiment. 
Steel  pens  had  not  crowded  out  the  old-fashioned  goose-quill, 
and  pen-knives  meant  just  what  their  name  implies.  Matches 
were  yet  of  the  future.  We  carried  tinder-boxes  to  strike  fire 
with.  People  shook  their  heads  at  the  telegraph.  The  day  of 
the  stage-coach  was  not  yet  past.  Steamboat  and  railroad  had 
not  come  within  forty  miles  of  the  town,  and  only  one  steam 
factory  —  a  cotton  mill  that  was  owned  by  EHzabeth's  father. 
At  the  time  of  the  beginning  of  m}^  story,  he,  having  made  much 


8  THE  MAKING  OF  AN  AMERICAN 


money  during  the  early  years  of  the  American  war  through  fore- 
sight in  having  supphed  himself  with  cotton,  was  building  another 
and  larger,  and  I  helped  to  put  it  up.  Of  progress  and  enter- 
prise he  held  an  absolute  monopoly  in  Ribe,  and  though  he 
employed  more  than  half  of  its  working  force,  it  is  not  far  from 
the  truth  that  he  was  unpopular  on  that  account.  It  could  not 
be  well  otherwise  in  a  town  whose  militia  company  yet  drilled 
with  flint-lock  muskets.  Those  we  had  in  the  school  for  the  use 
of  the  big  boys  —  dreadful  old  blunderbusses  of  the  pre- 
Napoleonic  era  —  were  of  the  same  pattern.  I  remember  the 
fright  that  seized  our  worthy  rector  when  the  German  army  was 
approaching  in  the  winter  of  1863,  and  the  haste  they  made  to 
pack  them  all  up  in  a  box  and  send  them  out  to  be  sunk  in  the 
deep,  lest  they  fall  into  the  hands  of  the  enemy;  and  the  con- 
sternation that  sat  upon  their  faces  when  they  saw  the  Prussian 
needle-guns. 

The  watchman  still  cried  the  hour  at  night.  They  do,  for 
that  matter,  yet.  The  railroad  came  to  town  and  the  march  of 
improvement  struck  it,  after  I  had  gone  away.  Century-old 
institutions  were  ruthlessly  upset.  The  poHce  force,  which  in 
my  boyhood  consisted  of  a  man  and  a  half  —  that  is,  one  with  a 
wooden  leg  —  was  increased  and  uniformed,  and  the  night 
watchma  I's  chant  was  stopped.  But  there  are  limits  to  every- 
thing. The  town  that  had  been  waked  every  hour  of  the  night 
since  the  early  Middle  Ages  to  be  told  that  it  slept  soundly, 
could  not  possibly  take  a  night^s  rest  without  it.  It  lay  awake 
dreading  all  sorts  of  unknown  disasters.  Universal  insomnia 
threatened  it;  and  within  a  month,  on  petition  of  the  entire 
community,  the  council  restored  the  songsters,  and  they  squeak 
to  this  day.  This  may  sound  like  exaggeration;  but  it  is  not. 
It  is  a  faithful  record  of  what  took  place  and  stands  so  upon  the 
official  minutes  of  the  municipality. 

When  I  was  in  Denmark  last  year,  I  looked  over  some  of  those 


THE  MEETING  ON  THE  LONG  BRIDGE  9 


old  reports,  and  had  more  than  one  melancholy  laugh  at  the 
account  of  measures  taken  for  the  defence  of  Ribe  at  the  first 
assault  of  the  Germans  in  1849.  That  was  the  year  I  was  born. 
Ribe,  being  a  border  town  on  the  line  of  the  coveted  territory, 
set  about  arming  itself  to  resist  invasion.  The  citizens  built 
barricades  in  the  streets  —  one  of  them,  with  wise  forethought, 
in  front  of  the  drug  store,  ^^in  case  any  one  were  to  faint and 
stand  in  need  of  Hoffmanns  drops  or  smelling-salts.  The  women 
filled  kettles  with  hot  water  in  the  houses  flanking  an  eventual 
advance.  ^'Two  hundred  pounds  of  powder"  were  ordered 
from  the  next  town  by  foot-post,  and  a  cannon  that  had  stood 
half  buried  a  hundred  years,  serving  for  a  hitching-post,  was  dug 
up  and  put  into  commission.  There  being  a  scarcity  of  guns, 
the  curate  of  the  next  village  reported  arming  his  host  with  spears 
and  battle-axes  as  the  ne::t  best  thing.  A  rumor  of  a  sudden 
advance  of  the  enemy  sent'  the  mothers  with  babes  in  arms 
scurrjang  north  for  safety.  My  mother  was  among  them.  I 
was  a  month  old  at  the  time.  Thirty  years  later  I  battled  for 
the  mastery  in  the  police  office  in  Mulberry  Street  with  a  reporter 
for  the  Staats-Zeifung  whom  I  discovered  to  be  one  of  those 
invaders,  and  I  took  it  out  of  him  in  revenge.  Old  Cohen  carried 
a  Danish  bullet  in  his  arm  to  remind  him  of  his  early  ill-doings. 
But  it  was  not  fired  in  defence  of  Ribe.  That  collapsed  when  a 
staff  officer  of  the  government,  who  had  been  sent  out  to  report 
upon  the  zeal  of  the  Ribe  men,  declared  that  the  town  could  be 
defended  only  by  damming  the  river  and  flooding  the  meadows, 
which  would  cost  two  hundred  daler.  The  minutes  of  the  council 
represent  that  that  was  held  to  be  too  great  a  price  to  pay  for  the 
privilege  of  being  sacked,  perhaps,  as  a  captured  town ;  and  the 
citizen  army  disbanded. 

If  the  coming  of  the  invading  army  could  have  been  timed  to 
suit,  the  sea,  which  from  old  was  the  bulwark  of  the  nation, 
might  have  completed  the  defences  of  Ribe  without  other  ex- 


10 


THE  MAKING  OF  AN  AMERICAN 


pense  to  it  than  that  of  repairing  damages.  Two  or  three  times 
a  year,  usually  in  the  fall,  when  it  blew  long  and  hard  from  the 
northwest,  it  broke  in  over  the  low  meadows  and  flooded  the 
country  as  far  as  the  eye  could  reach.  Then  the  high  causeways 
were  the  refuge  of  everything  that  lived  in  the  fields;  hares, 
mice,  foxes,  and  partridges  huddled  there,  shivering  in  the 
shower  of  spray  that  shot  over  the  road,  and  making  such  stand 
as  they  could  against  the  fierce  blast.  If  the  storm  flood'' 
came  early  in  the  season,  before  the  cattle  had  been  housed,  there 
was  a  worse  story  to  tell.  Then  the  town  butcher  went  upon 
the  causeway  at  daybreak  with  the  implements  of  his  trade  to 
save  if  possible,  by  letting  the  blood,  at  least  the  meat  of  drowmed 
cattle  and  sheep  that  were  cast  up  by  the  sea.  When  it  rose 
higher  and  washed  over  the  road,  the  mail-coach  picked  its  way 
warily  between  white  posts  set  on  both  sides  to  guide  it  safe.  We 
boys  caught  fish  in  the  streets  of  the  town,  while  red  tiles  flew 
from  the  roofs  all  about  us,  and  we  enjoyed  ourselves  hugely. 
It  was  part  of  the  duty  of  the  watchman  who  cried  the  hours 
to  give  warning  if  the  sea  came  in  suddenly  during  the  night. 
And  when  we  heard  it  we  shivered  in  our  beds  with  gruesome 
delight. 

The  people  of  Ribe  were  of  three  classes:  the  officials,  the 
tradesmen,  and  the  working  people.  The  bishop,  the  burgo- 
master, and  the  rector  of  the  Latin  School  headed  the  first  class, 
to  which  my  father  belonged  as  the  senior  master  in  the  school. 
EUzabetli's  father  easily  led  the  second  class.  For  the  third,  it 
had  no  leaders  and  nothing  to  say  at  that  time.  On  state  oc- 
casions lines  were  quite  sharply  drawn  between  the  classes,  but 
the  general  kindliness  of  the  people  caused  them  at  ordinary 
times  to  hc^  so  relaxed  that  the  difference  was  hardly  to  be 
noticed.  Theirs  was  a  real  neighborliness  that  roamed  un- 
restrained and  without  prejudice  until  brought  up  with  a  round 
turn  at  the  barrier  of  traditional  orthodoxy.    I  remember  well 


THE  MEETING  ON  THE  LONG  BRIDGE  11 


one  instance  of  that  kind.  There  Uved  in  our  town  a  single 
family  of  Jews,  well-to-do  tradespeople,  gentle  and  good,  and 
socially  popular.  There  lived  also  a  Gentile  woman  of  wealth, 
a  mother  in  the  strictly  Lutheran  Israel,  who  fed  and  clothed  the 
poor  and  did  no  end  of  good.  She  was  a  very  pious  woman.  It 
so  happened  that  the  Jewess  and  the  Christian  were  old  friends. 
But  one  day  they  strayed  upon  dangerous  ground.  The  Jewess 
saw  it  and  tried  to  turn  the  conversation  from  the  forbidden 
topic. 

'^Well,  dear  friend,'^  she  said,  soothingly,  ^'some  day,  when 
we  meet  in  heaven,  we  shall  all  know  better." 

The  barrier  was  reached.  Her  friend  fairly  bristled  as  she 
made  reply : 

''What!    Our  heaven?    No,  indeed!    We  may  be  good 

friends  here,  Mrs.  ,  bat  there  —  really,  you  will  have  to 

excuse  me.'' 

Narrow  streams  are  apt  to  run  deep.  An  incident  which  I  set 
down  in  justice  to  the  uncompromising  orthodoxy  of  that  day, 
made  a  strong  impression  on  me.  The  two  concerned  in  it  were 
my  uncle,  a  gener-<^us,  bright,  even  a  brilliant  man,  but  with  no 
great  bump  of  reverence,  and  the  deacon  in  the  village  church 
where  they  Uved.  He  was  the  exact  opposite  of  my  uncle :  hard, 
unlovely,  but  deeply  religious.  The  two  were  neighbors  and 
quarrelled  about  their  fence-line.  For  months  they  did  not 
speak.  On  Sunday  the  deacon  strode  by  on  his  way  to  church, 
and  my  uncle,  who  stayed  home,  improved  the  opportunity  to 
point  out  of  what  stuff  those  Pharisees  were  made,  much  to  his 
own  edification.  Easter  week  came.  In  Denmark  it  is,  or  was, 
custom  to  go  to  communion  once  a  year,  on  Holy  Thursday,  if 
at  no  other  season,  and,  I  might  add,  rarely  at  any  other.  On 
Wednesday  night,  the  deacon  appeared,  unbidden,  at  my  uncle's 
door,  craving  an  inter\dew.  If  a  spectre  had  suddenly  walked 
in,  I  do  not  suppose  he  could  have  lost  his  wits  more  completely. 


12 


THE  MAKING  OF  AN  AMERICAN 


He  recovered  them  with  an  effort,  and  bidding  his  guest  welcome, 
led  him  courteously  to  his  office. 

From  that  interview  he  came  forth  a  changed  man.  Long 
years  after  I  heard  the  full  story  of  it  from  my  uncle's  own  lips. 
It  was  simple  enough.  The  deacon  said  that  duty  called  him 
to  the  communion  table  on  the  morrow,  and  that  he  could  not 
reconcile  it  with  his  conscience  to  go  with  hate  toward  his 
neighbor  in  his  heart.  Hence  he  had  come  to  tell  him  that  he 
might  have  the  line  as  he  claimed  it.  The  spark  struck  fire. 
Then  and  there  they  made  up  and  were  warm  friends,  though 
agreeing  in  nothing,  till  they  died.  ''The  faith,"  said  my  uncle 
in  telling  of  it,  ''that  could  work  in  that  way  upon  such  a  nature, 
is  not  to  be  made  light  of.''  And  he  never  did  after  that.  He 
died  a  believing  man. 

It  may  be  that  it  contributed  something  to  the  ordinarily 
democratic  relations  of  the  upper-class  men  and  the  trades- 
people that  the  latter  were  generally  well-to-do,  while  the  officials 
mostly  had  a  running  fight  of  it  with  their  incomes.  My  father's 
salary  had  to  reach  around  to  a  family  of  fourteen,  nay,  fifteen, 
for  he  took  his  dead  sister's  child  when  a  baby  and  brought  her 
up  with  us,  who  were  boys  all  but  one.  Father  had  charge  of 
the  Latin  form,  and  this,  with  a  sense  of  grim  humor,  caused 
him,  I  suDpose,  to  check  his  children  off  with  the  Latin  numerals, 
as  it  were.  The  sixth  was  baptized  Sextus,  the  ninth  Nonus, 
though  they  were  not  called  so,  and  he  was  dissuaded  from  calling 
the  twelfth  Duodecimus  only  by  the  certainty  that  the  other 
boys  would  miscall  him  "Dozen."  How  I  escaped  Tertius  I 
don't  know.  Probably  the  scheme  had  not  been  thought  of 
then.  Poor  father!  Of  the  whole  fourteen  but  one  lived  to 
realize  his  iiopes  of  a  professional  career,  only  to  die  when  he 
had  just  graduated  from  the  medical  school.  My  oldest  brother 
went  to  sea ;  Sophus,  the  doctor,  was  the  next ;  and  I,  when  it 
came  my  time  to  study  in  earnest,  refused  flatly  and  declared  my 


THE  MEETING  ON  THE  LONG  BRIDGE  13 


wish  to  learn  the  carpenter's  trade.  Not  till  thirty  years  after 
did  I  know  how  deep  the  wound  was  I  struck  m}^  father  then. 
He  had  set  his  heart  upon  my  making  a  literar}^  career,  and 
though  he  was  very  far  from  lacking  sympathy  with  the  work- 
ingman  —  I  rather  think  that  he  was  the  one  link  between  the 
upper  and  lower  strata  in  our  town  in  that  way,  enjoying  the 
most  hearty  respect  of  both  —  yet  it  was  a  sad  disappointment 
to  him.  It  was  in  1893,  when  I  saw  him  for  the  last  time,  that  I 
found  it  out,  by  a  chance  remark  he  dropped  when  sitting  with 
my  first  book,  How  the  Other  Half  Lives,"  in  his  hand,  and 
also  the  sacrifice  he  had  made  of  his  own  literary  ambitions  to 
eke  out  by  hack  editorial  work  on  the  local  newspaper  a  living 
for  his  large  family.  As  for  me,  I  would  have  been  repaid  for 
the  labor  of  writing  a  thousand  books  by  witnessing  the  pride 
he  took  in  mine.  There  was  at  last  a  man  of  letters  in  the 
family,  though  he  came  by  a  road  not  down  on  the  official  map. 

Crying  over  spilt  milk  was  not  my  father's  fashioQ,  however. 
If  I  was  to  be  a  carpenter,  there  was  a  good  one  in  town,  to  whom 
I  was  forthwith  apprenticed  for  a  year.  During  that  time, 
incidentally,  I  might  make  up  my  mind,  upon  the  evidence  of 
my  reduced  standing,  that  school  was,  after  all,  to  be  preferred. 
And  thus  it  was  that  I  came  to  be  a  working  boy  helping  build 
her  proud  father's  factory  at  the  time  I  fell  head  over  heels  in 
love  wdth  sweet  Elizabeth.  Certainly  I  had  taken  no  easy  road 
to  the  winning  of  my  way  and  my  bride ;  so  reasoned  the  town, 
which  presently  took  note  of  my  infatuation.  But,  then,  it 
laughed,  there  was  time  enough.  I  was  fifteen  and  she  was  not 
thirteen.  There  was  time  enough,  oh,  yes !  Only  I  did  not 
think  so.  My  courtship  proceeded  at  a  tumultuous  pace,  which 
first  made  the  town  laugh,  then  put  it  out  of  patience  and  made 
some  staid  matrons  express  the  desire  to  box  my  ears  soundly. 
It  must  be  owned  that  if  courting  were  generally  done  on  the 
plan  I  adopted,  there  would  be  little  peace  and  less  safety  all 


14  THE  MAKING  OF  AN  AMERICAN 


around.  When  she  came  playing  among  the  lumber  where  we 
were  working,  as  she  naturally  would,  danger  dogged  my  steps. 
I  carry  a  scar  on  the  shin-bone  made  with  an  adze  I  should  have 
been  minding  when  I  was  looking  after  her.  The  forefinger  on 
my  left  hand  has  a  stiff  joint.  I  cut  that  off  with  an  axe  when 
she  was  dancing  on  a  beam  close  by.  Though  it  was  put  on 
again  by  a  clever  surgeon  and  kept  on,  I  have  never  had  the  use 
of  it  since.  But  w^hat  did  a  finger  matter,  or  ten,  when  she  was 
only  there  !  Once  I  fell  off  the  roof  when  I  must  crane  my  neck 
to  see  her  go  around  the  corner.  But  I  hardly  took  note  of  those 
things,  except  to  enlist  her  sympath}^  by  posing  as  a  wounded 
hero  with  my  arm  in  a  sling  at  the  dancing-school  which  I  -  had 
joined  on  purpose  to  dance  with  her.  I  was  the  biggest  boy  there, 
and  therefore  first  to  choose  a  partner,  and  I  remember  even  now 
the  snickering  of  the  school  when  I  went  right  over  and  took 
Elizabeth.  She  flushed  angrily,  but  I  didn't  care.  That  was 
what  I  was  there  for,  and  I  had  her  now.  I  didn't  let  her  go 
again,  either,  though  the  teacher  delicately  hinted  that  we  were 
not  a  good  match.  She  was  the  best  dancer  in  the  school,  and 
I  was  the  worst.  Not  a  good  match,  hey !  That  was  as  much 
as  she  knew  about  it. 

It  was  at  the  ball  that  closed  the  dancing-school  that  I  excited 
the  stro'-.g  desire  of  the  matrons  to  box  my  ears  b^^  ordering 
Elizabeth's  father  off  the  floor  when  he  tried  to  join  in  before 
midnight,  the  time  set  for  the  elders  to  take  charge.  I  was  floor 
committee,  but  how  I  could  do  such  a  thing  passes  my  under- 
standing, except  on  the  principle  laid  down  by  Mr.  Dooley  that 
when  a  man  is  in  love  he  is  looking  for  fight  all  around.  I  must 
have  been,  for  they  had  to  hold  me  back  by  main  strength  from 
running  away  to  the  army  that  was  fighting  a  losing  fight  wdth 
two  Great  Powers  that  winter.  Though  I  was  far  under  age,  I 
was  a  big  boy,  and  might  have  passed ;  but  the  hasty  retreat  of 
our  brave  little  band  before  overwhelming  odds  settled  it.  With 


THE  MEETING  ON  THE  LONG  BRIDGE  15 


the  echoes  of  the  scandal  caused  by  the  ball  episode  still  ringing, 
I  went  off  to  Copenhagen  to  serve  out  my  apprenticeship  there 
with  a  great  builder  whose  name  I  saw^  among  the  dead  in  the 
paper  onl}'  the  other  da3^    He  w^as  ever  a  good  friend  to  me. 

The  third  day  after  I  reached  the  capital,  which  happened  to 
be  my  birthday,  I  had  appointed  a  meeting  with  my  student 
brother  at  the  art  exhibition  in  the  palace  of  Charlottenborg.  I 
found  tw^o  stairways  running  up  from  the  main  entrance,  and 
was  debating  in  my  mind  which  to  take,  when  a  handsome 
gentleman  in  a  blue  overcoat  asked,  with  a  slight  foreign  accent, 
if  he  could  help  me.  I  told  him  my  trouble,  and  we  went  up 
together. 

We  walked  slowh^  and  carried  on  quite  an  animated  conversa- 
tion;  that  is  to  say,  I  did.  His  part  of  it  was  confined  mostly 
to  questions,  which  I  was  no  way  loth  to  answer.  I  told  him 
about  myself  and  my  plans ;  about  the  old  school,  and  about  my 
father,  whom  I  took  it  for  granted  he  knew ;  for  was  he  not  the 
oldest  teacher  in  the  school,  and  the  wisest,  as  all  Ribe  could 
testify?  He  listened  to  it  all  with  a  curious  little  smile,  and 
nodded  in  a  very  pleasant  and  sympathetic  wsiy  v/hich  I  liked 
to  see.  I  told  him  so,  and  that  I  liked  the  people  of  Copenhagen 
well;  they  seemed  so  kind  to  a  stranger,  and  he  put  his  hand  on 
my  arm  and  patted  it  in  a  friendly  manner  that  was  altogether 
nice.  So  we  arrived  together  at  the  door  where  the  red  lackey 
stood. 

He  bowed  very  deep  as  we  entered,  and  I  bowed  back,  and 
told  my  friend  that  there  was  an  example  of  it ;  for  I  had  never 
seen  the  man  before.  At  which  he  laughed  outright,  and, 
pointing  to  a  door,  said  I  would  find  my  brother  in  there,  and 
bade  me  good-by.  He  was  gone  before  I  could  shake  hands  with 
him  ;  but  just  then  my  brother  came  up,  and  I  forgot  about  him 
in  my  admiration  of  the  pictures. 

We  were  resting  in  one  of  the  rooms  an  hour  later,  and  I  was 


16  THE  MAKING  OF  AN  AMERICAN 


going  over  the  events  of  the  day,  teUing  all  about  the  kind 
stranger,  when  in  he  came,  and  nodded,  smiling  at  me. 

There  he  is,^'  I  cried,  and  nodded  too.  To  my  surprise, 
Sophus  got  up  with  a  start  and  salaamed  in  haste. 

^'Good  gracious!^'  he  said,  when  the  stranger  was  gone. 
^^You  don^t  mean  to  say  he  was  your  guide?  Why,  that  was 
the  King,  boy!^' 

I  was  never  so  astonished  in  my  life  and  expect  never  to  be 
again.  I  had  only  known  kings  from  Hans  Christian  Ander- 
sen's story  books,  where  they  always  went  in  coronation  robes, 
with  long  train  and  pages,  and  with  gold  crowns  on  their  heads. 
That  a  king  could  go  around  in  a  blue  overcoat,  like  any  other 
man,  was  a  real  shock  to  me  that  I  didn't  get  over  for  a  while. 
But  when  I  got  to  know  more  of  King  Christian,  I  liked  him  all 
the  better  for  it.  You  couldn't  help  that  anyhow.  His  people 
call  him  ^Hhe  good  king"  with  cause.    He  is  that. 

Speaking  of  Hans  Christian  Andersen,  we  boys  lovcd  him  as 
a  matter  of  course;  for  had  he  not  told  us  all  the  beautiful 
stories  that  made  the  whole  background  of  our  lives?  They  do^ 
that  yet  with  me,  more  than  you  would  think.  The  little 
Christmas  tree  and  the  hare  that  made  it  weep  by  jumping  over 
it  because  it  was  so  small,  belong  to  the  things  that  come  to  stay 
with  you  always.  I  hear  of  people  nowadays  who  think  it  is  not 
proper  to  tell  children  fairy-stories.  I  am  sorry  for  those  chil- 
dren. I  wonder  what  they  will  give  them  instead.  Algebra 
perhaps.  Nice  lot  of  counting  machines  we  shall  have  running 
the  century  that  is  to  come !  But  though  we  loved  Andersen, 
we  were. not  above  playing  our  pranks  upon  him  when  occasion 
offered.  In  those  days  Copenhagen  was  girt  about  with  great 
earthen  wt^lls,  and  there  were  beautiful  walks  up  there  under  the 
old  lindens.  On  moonlight  nights  when  the  smell  of  violets  was 
in  the  air,  we  would  sometimes  meet  the  poet  there,  walking 
alone.    Then  we  would  string  out  irreverently  in  Indian  tile  and 


THE  MEETING  ON  THE  LONG  BRIDGE  17 


walk  up,  cap  in  hand,  one  after  another,  to  salute  him  with  a 
deeply  respectful  ^'Good  evening,  Herr  Professor!''  That  was 
his  title.  His  kind  face  would  beam  with  delight,  and  our 
proffered  fists  would  be  buried  in  the  very  biggest  hand,  it 
seemed  to  us,  that  mortal  ever  owned,  —  Andersen  had  very 
large  hands  and  feet,  —  and  we  would  go  away  gleefully  chuc- 
kling and  withal  secretly  ashamed  of  ourselves.  He  was  in  such 
evident  dehght  at  our  homage. 

They  used  to  tell  a  story  of  Andersen  at  the  time  that  made 
the  whole  town  laugh  in  its  sleeve,  though  there  was  not  a  bit  of 
maUce  in  it.  No  one  had  anything  but  the  sincerest  affection 
for  the  poet  in  my  day  ;  his  storm  and  stress  period  was  then  long 
past.  He  was,  it  was  said,  greatly  afraid  of  being  buried  ahve. 
So  that  it  might  not  happei\  he  carefully  pinned  a  paper  to  his 
blanket  every  night  before  he  went  to  sleep,  on  which  was 
written,  ''I  guess  I  am  only  in  a  trance. Needless  to  say,  he 
was  in  no  danger.  ^Vllen  he  fell  into  his  long  sleep,  the  whole 
country,  for  that  matter  the  whole  world,  stood  weeping  at  his 
bier. 

Four  years  I  dreamt  away  in  Copenhagen  while  I  learned  m}^ 
trade.  The  intervals  when  I  was  awake  were  when  she  came  to 
the  town  on  a  visit  with  her  father,  or,  later,  'to  finish  her  edu- 
cation at  a  fashionable  school.  I  mind  the  first  time  she  came. 
I  was  at  the  depot,  and  I  rode  with  her  on  the  back  of  their  coach, 
unknown  to  them.  So  I  found  out  what  hotel  they  were  to  stay 
at.  I  called  the  next  day,  and  purposely  forgot  my  gloves. 
Heaven  knows  where  I  got  them  from  —  probably  borrowed 
them.  Those  were  not  days  for  gloves.  Her  father  sent  them 
to  my  address  the  next  day  with  a  broad  hint  that,  ha\dng  been 
neighborly,  I  needn't  call  again.  He  was  getting  square  for  the 
ball.  But  my  wife  says  that  I  was  never  good  at  taking  a  hint, 
except  in  the  way  of  business,  as  a  reporter.  I  kept  the  run  of 
1  In  Danish  ;  "  Jag  er  vist  kindod." 

0 


18 


THE  Making  of  an  American 


her  all  the  time  she  was  in  the  city.  She  did  not  always  see  me, 
but  I  saw  her,  and  that  was  enough.  I  watched  her  home  from 
school  in  the  evening,  and  was  content,  though  she  was  escorted 
by  a  cadet  with  a  pig-sticker  at  his  side.  He  was  her  cousin,  and 
had  given  me  his  word  that  he  cared  nothing  about  her.  He  is 
a  commodore  and  King  Christian's  Secretary  of  Na\'y  now. 
When  she  was  sick,  I  pledged  my  Sunday  trousers  for  a  dollar 
and  bought  her  a  bouquet  of  flowers  which  they  teased  her  about 
until  she  cried  and  threw  it  away.  And  all  the  time  she  was 
getting  more  beautiful  and  more  lovable.  She  was  certainly  the 
handsomest  girl  in  Copenhagen,  which  is  full  of  charming 
women. 

There  were  long  spells  when  she  was  away,  and  when  I  dreamt 
on  undisturbed.  It  was  during  one  of  these  that  I  went  to  the 
theatre  with  my  brother  to  see  a  famous  play  in  which  an  assassin 
tried  to  murder  the  heroine,  who  was  asleep  in  an  armchair. 
Now,  this  heroine  was  a  well-known  actress  who  looked  sin- 
gularly like  Ehzabeth.  As  she  sat  there  with  the  long  curls 
sweeping  her  graceful  neck,  in  imminent  danger  of  being  killed,  I 
forgot  where  I  was,  what  it  was,  all  and  everything  except  that 
danger  threatened  Ehzabeth,  and  sprang  to  my  feet  with  a  loud 
cr}^  of  murder,  trying  to  make  for  the  stage.  My  brother 
struggled  to  hold  me  back.  There  was  a  sensation  in  the  theatre, 
and  the  play  was  held  up  while  they  put  me  out.  I  remember 
King  George  of  Greece  eyeing  me  from  his  box  as  I  was  being 
transported  to  the  door,  and  the  rascal  murderer  on  the  stage 
looking  as  if  he  had  done  som^ething  deser\dng  of  praise.  Out- 
side, in  the  cold,  my  brother  shook  me  up  and  took  me  home,  a 
sobered  and  somewhat  crestfallen  lad.  But,  anj^how,  I  don't 
like  that  kind  of  play.  I  don't  see  why  the  villain  on  the  stage 
is  any  better  than  the  villain  on  the  street.  There  are  enough 
of  them  and  to  spare.    And  think  if  he  had  killed  her ! 

The  years  passed,  and  the  day  came  at  last  when,  having 


THE  :\IEETING  OX  THE  LONG  BRIDGE  19 


proved  my  fitness,  I  received  1113^  certificate  as  a  duly  enrolled 
carpenter  of  the  guild  of  Copenhagen,  and,  dropping  my  tools 
joyfully  and  in  haste,  made  a  bee-Hne  for  Ribe,  where  she  was. 
I  thought  that  I  had  moved  with  very  stealthy  steps  toward  my 
goal,  haA^ng  grown  four  j^ears  older  than  at  the  time  I  set  the 
whole  community  by  the  ears.  But  it  could  not  have  been  so, 
for  I  had  not  been  twenty-four  hours  in  town  before  it  was  all 
over  that  I  had  come  home  to  propose  to  Elizabeth ;  which  was 
annoying  but  true.  By  the  same  sort  of  sorcery  the  towni  knew 
in  another  day  that  she  had  refused  me,  and  all  the  wise  heads 
wagged  and  bore  wdtness  that  they  could  have  told  me  so.  \Miat 
did  I,  a  common  carpenter,  want  at  the  ''castle"?  That  was 
what  they" called  her  father's  house.  He  had  other  plans  for  his 
pretty  daughter. 

As  for  Ehzabeth,  poor  child !  she  was  not  yet  seventeen,  and 
was  easily  persuaded  that  it  was  all  wrong;  she  wept,  and  in  the 
goodness  of  her  gentle  heart  was  truly  sorr}^;  and  I  kissed  her 
hands  and  went  out,  my  eyes  brirximing  over  with  tears,  feeling 
that  there  was  nothing  in  all  the  wide  world  for  me  any  more, 
and  that  the  farther  I  went  from  her  the  better.  So  it  was  settled 
that  I  should  go  to  America.  Her  mother  gave  me  a  picture  of 
her  and  a  lock  of  her  hair,  and  thereb}^  roused  the  wrath  of  the 
dowagers  once  more;  for  why  should  I  be  breaking  my  heart 
over  Elizabeth  m  foreign  parts,  since  she  was  not  for  me?  Ah, 
but  mothers  know  better !  1  hved  on  that  picture  and  that  curl 
six  long  \^ears. 

One  May  morning  my  own  mother  went  to  the  stage-coach 
with  me  to  see  me  off  on  m}"  long  journey.  Father  stayed  home. 
He  was  ever  a  man  who,  with  the  tenderest  of  hearts,  put  on  an 
appearance  of  great  sternness  lest  he  betra^^  it.  God  rest  his 
soul !  That  nothing  that  I  have  done  caused  him  greater  grief 
in  his  life  than  the  separation  that  day  is  sweet  comfort  to  me 
now.    He  hved  to  take  Elizabeth  to  his  heart,  a  beloved  daugh- 


20  THE  MAKING  OF  AN  AMERICAN 


ter.  For  me,  I  had  been  that  morning,  long  before  the  sun  rose, 
under  her  window  to  bid  her  good-by,  but  she  did  not  know  it. 
The  servants  did,  though,  and  told  her  of  it  when  she  got  up. 
And  she,  girl-like,  said,  '^Well,  I  didn't  ask  him  to  come'';  but 
in  her  secret  soul  I  think  there  was  a  small  regret  that  she  did 
not  see  me  go. 

So  I  went  out  in  the  world  to  seek  my  fortune,  the  richer  for 
some  $40  which  Ribe  friends  had  presented  to  me,  knowing  that 
I  had  barely  enough  to  pay  my  passage  over  in  the  steerage. 
Though  I  had  aggravated  them  in  a  hundred  ways  and  wholly 
disturbed  the  peace  of  the  old  town,  I  think  they  hked  me  a 
little,  anyway.  They  were  always  good,  kind  neighbors,  honest 
and  lovable  folk.  I  looked  back  with  my  mother's  blessing  yet 
in  my  ears,  to  where  the  gilt  weather-vanes  glistened  on  her 
father's  house,  and  the  tears  brimmed  over  again.  And  yet, 
such  is  life,  presently  I  felt  my  heart  bound  with  a  ne  w  courage. 
All  was  not  lost  yet.  The  world  was  before  me.  But  yesterday 
the  chance  befell  that,  in  going  to  communion  in  the  old  Dom- 
kirke,  I  knelt  beside  her  at  the  altar  rail.  I  thought  of  that  and 
dried  my  eyes.  God  is  good.  He  did  not  lay  it  up  against  me. 
When  next  we  met  there,  we  knelt  to  be  made  man  and  wife,  for 
better  or  worse;  blessedly,  gloriously  for  better,  forever  and 
aye,  and  all  our  troubles  were  over.  For  had  we  not  one  another? 


CHAPTER  II 


I  Laxd  in  New  York  axd  Take  a  Haxd  in  the  Game 

The  steamer  Iowa,  from  Glasgow,  made  port,  after  a  long  and 
stormy  voyage,  on  Whitsunday,  1870.  She  had  come  up  during 
the  night,  and  cast  anchor  off  Castle  Garden.  It  was  a  beau- 
tiful spring  morning,  and  as  I  looked  over  the  rail  at  the  miles 
of  straight  streets,  the  green  heights  of  Brooklyn,  and  the  stir 
of  ferryboats  and  pleasure  craft  on  the  river,  my  hopes  rose 
high  that  somewhere  in  this  teeming  hive  there  would  be  a  place 
for  me.  What  kind  of  a  place  I  had  myself  no  clear  notion  of. 
I  would  let  that  work  out  as  it  could.  Of  course  I  had  my  trade 
to  fall  back  on,  bu^.  I  am  afraid  that  is  all  the  use  I  thought  of 
putting  it  to.  The  love  of  change  belongs  to  youth,  and  I 
meant  to  take  a  hand  in  things  as  they  came  along.  I  had  a 
pair  of  strong  hands,  and  stubbornness  enough  to  do  for  two ; 
also  a  strong  belief  that  in  a  free  countr}%  free  from  the  do- 
minion of  custom,  of  caste,  as  well  as  of  men,  things  would  some- 
how come  right  in  the  end,  and  a  man  get  shaken  into  the 
corner  where  he  belonged  if  he  took  a  hand  in  the  game.  I 
think  I  was  right  m  that.  If  it  took  a  lot  of  shaking  to  get  me 
where  I  belonged,  that  was  just  what  I  needed.  Even  my 
mother  admits  that  now.  To  tell  the  truth,  I  was  tired  of  ham- 
mer and  saw.  They  were  indissolubly  bound  up  \\dth  my 
dreams  of  EUzabeth  that  were  now  gone  to  smash.  Therefore 
I  hated  them.    And  straightway,  remembering  that  the  day  was 

21 


22 


THE  MAKING  OF  AN  AMERICAN 


her  birthday,  and  accepting  the  fact  as  a  good  omen,  I  rebuilt 
my  air-castles  and  resolved  to  try  on  a  new  tack.  So  irrational 
is  human  nature  at  twenty-one,  when  in  love.  And  isn't  it 
good  that  it  is  ? 

In  all  of  which  I  have  made  no  account  of  a  factor  which  is 
at  the  bottom  of  half  our  troubles  with  our  immigrant  popula- 
tion, so  far  as  they  are  not  of  our  own  making :  the  loss  of  reckon- 
ing that  follows  uprooting;  the  cutting  loose  from  all  sense  of 
responsibility,  with  the  old  standards  gone,  that  makes  the 
politician's  job  so  profitable  in  our  large  cities,  and  that  of  the 
patriot  and  the  housekeeper  so  wearisome.  We  all  know  the 
process.  The  immigrant  has  no  patent  on  it.  It  afflicts  the 
native,  too,  when  he  goes  to  a  town  where  he  is  not  known.  In 
the  slum  it  reaches  its  climax  in  the  second  generation,  and 
makes  of  the  Irishman's  and  the  Italian's  boys  the  "toughs"  who 
fight  the  battles  of  Hell's  Kitchen  and  Frog  Hollow.  It  simply 
means  that  we  are  creatures  of  environment,  that  a  man  ever}^- 
where  is  largely  what  his  neighbors  and  his  children  think  him 
to  be,  and  that  government  makes  for  our  moral  good  too, 
dreamers  and  anarchists  to  the  contrary  notwithstanding. 
But,  simple  as  it  is,  it  has  been  too  long  neglected  for  the  safety 
of  the  man  and  of  the  State.  I  am  not  going  to  discuss  here 
plans  for  mending  this  neglect,  but  I  can  think  of  three  that 
would  work ;  one  of  them  does  work,  if  not  up  to  the  top  notch 
■ —  the  p'iblic  school.  In  its  ultimate  development  as  the  neigh- 
borhood centre  of  things,  I  would  have  that  the  first  care  of 
city  government,  always  and  everywhere,  at  whatever  expense. 
An  efficient  parish  districting  is  another.  I  think  we  are  coming 
to  that.  The  last  is  a  rigid  annual  enrolment  —  the  school 
census  is  good,  but  not  good  enough  —  for  vaccination  pur- 
poses, jury  duty,  for  mihtary  purposes  if  you  please.  I  do  not 
mean  for  conscription,  but  for  the  ascertainment  of  the  fighting 
strength  of  the  State  in  case  of  need  —  for  anything  that  would 


I  TAKE  A  HAND  IN  THE  GAME 


23 


serve  as  an  excuse.  It  is  the  enrolment  itself  that  I  think  would 
have  a  good  effect  in  making  the  man  feel  that  he  is  counted  on 
for  something;  that  he  belongs  as  it  were,  instead  of  standing 
idle  and  watching  a  procession  go  by,  in  which  there  is  no  place 
for  him  ;  which  is  only  another  way  of  saying  that  it  is  his  right 
to  harass  it  and  le\'y  tribute  as  he  can.  The  enrolment  for 
voting  comes  too  late.  By  that  time  he  may  have  joined  the 
looters^  army. 

So  as  properly  to  take  my  own  place  in  the  procession,  if  not 
in  the  army  referred  to,  as  I  conceived  the  custom  of  the  country 
to  be,  I  made  it  my  first  business  to  buy  a  navy  revolver  of  the 
largest  size,  investing  in  the  purchase  exactly  one-haLf  of  my 
capital.  I  strapped  the  weapon  on  the  outside  of  my  coat  and 
strode  up  Broadway,  conscious  that  I  was  following  the  fashion 
of  the  country.  I  knew  it  upon  the  authority  of  a  man  who  had 
been  there  before  me  and  had  returned,  a  gold  digger  in  the 
early  days  of  California;  but  America  was  America  to  us. 
We  knew  no  distinction  of  West  and  East.  By  rights  there 
ought  to  have  been  buffaloes  and  red  Indians  charging  up  and 
down  Broadway.  I  am  sorry  to  say  that  it  is  easier  even  to-day 
to  make  lots  of  people  over  there  believe  that,  than  that  New 
York  is  paved,  and  lighted  with  electric  lights,  and  quite  as 
civiUzed  as  Copenhagen.  They  will  have  it  that  it  is  in  the 
wilds.  I  saw  none  of  the  signs  of  this,  but  I  encountered  a 
friendly  policeman,  who,  sizing  me  and  my  pistol  up,  tapped 
it  gently  with  his  club  and  advised  me  to  leave  it  home,  or  I 
might  get  robbed  of  it.  This,  at  first  blush,  seemed  to  confirm 
my  apprehensions ;  but  he  was  a  very  nice  policeman,  and  took 
time  to  explain,  seeing  that  I  was  very  green.  And  I  took  his 
advice  and  put  the  revolver  away,  secretly  relieved  to  get  rid 
of  it.    It  was  quite  heavy  to  carry  around. 

I  had  letters  to  the  Danish  Consul  and  to  the  President  of  the 
American  Banknote  Company,  Mr.  Goodall.    I  think  perhaps 


24  THE  MAKING  OF  AN  AMERICAN 


he  was  not  then  the  president,  but  became  so  afterward. 
Mr.  Goodall  had  once  been  wrecked  on  the  Danish  coast  and 
rescued  by  the  captain  of  the  Hfesaving  crew,  a  friend  of  my 
family.  But  they  were  both  in  Europe,  and  in  just  four  days  I 
reahzed  that  there  was  no  special  pubHc  clamor  for  my  services  in 
New  York,  and  decided  to  go  West.  A  missionary  in  Castle  Gar- 
den was  getting  up  a  gang  of  men  for  the  Brady^s  Bend  Iron  Works 
on  the  Allegheny  River,  and  I  went  along.  We  started  a  full 
score,  with  tickets  paid,  but  only  two  of  us  reached  the  Bend. 
The  rest  calmly  deserted  in  Pittsburg  and  went  their  own  way. 
Now  here  was  an  instance  of  what  I  have  just  been  saying.  Not 
one  of  them,  probabl}^  would  have  thought  of  doing  it  on  the 
other  side.  They  would  have  carried  out  their  contract  as  a 
matter  of  course.  Here  they  broke  it  as  a  matter  of  course, 
the  minute  it  didn't  suit  them  to  go  on.  Two  of  them  had  been 
on  our  steamer,  and  'die  thought  of  them  makes  me  laugh  even 
now.  One  was  a  Dane  who  carried  an  immense  knapsack  that 
was  filled  with  sausages,  cheese,  and  grub  of  all  kinds  when  he 
came  aboard.  He  never  let  go  of  it  for  a  moment  on  the  voyage. 
In  storm  and  sunshine  he  was  there,  shouldering  his  knapsack. 
I  think  he  slept  with  it.  When  I  last  saw  him  hobbling  down 
a  side  street  in  Pittsburg,  he  carried  it  still,  but  one  end  of  it 
hung  limp  and  hungry,  and  the  other  was  as  lean  as  a  bad 
year.  The  other  voyager  was  a  jovial  Swede  whose  sole  bag- 
gage consisted  of  an  old  musket,  a  blackthorn  stick,  and  a 
barometer  glass,  tied  up  together.  The  glass,  he  explained, 
was  worth  keeping ;  it  might  some  day  make  an  elegant  ruler. 
The  fellow  was  a  blacksmith,  and  I  mistrust  that  he  could  not 
write. 

Adler  and  I  went  on  to  Brady's  Bend.  Adler  was  a  big,  ex- 
plosive German  who  had  been  a  reserve  officer,  I  think,  in  the 
Prussian  army.  Fate  had  linked  us  together  when  on  the  steamer 
the  meat  served-  in  the  steerage  became  so  bad  as  to  offend  not 


I  TAKE  A  HAND  IN  THE  GAIVIE 


25 


only  our  palates,  but  our  sense  of  smell.  We  got  up  a  demon- 
stration, marching  to  see  the  captain  in  a  body,  Adler  and  I 
carrying  a  tray  of  the  objectionable  meat  between  us.  As  the 
spokesman,  I  presented  the  case  briefly  and  respectfully,  and 
all  would  have  gone  well  had  not  the  hot  blood  of  Adler  risen 
at  the  wrong  moment,  when  the  captain  was  cautiously  ex- 
ploring the  scent  of  the  rejected  food.  With  a  sudden  upward 
jerk  he  caused  that  official's  nose  to  disappear  momentarily 
in  the  dish,  while  he  exploded  in  voluble  German.  The  result 
was  an  instant  rupture  of  diplomatic  relations.  Adler  was  put 
in  the  lock-up,  but  set  free  again  immediately.  He  spent  the 
rest  of  the  voyage  in  his  bunk  shouting  dire  threats  of  disaster 
impending  from  the  ^^Norddeutsche  Consul,"  once  he  reached 
New  York.  But  we  were  all  too  glad  to  get  ashore  to  think  of 
vengeance  then. 

Adler  found  work  at  the  blast-furnace,  while  I  was  set  to 
building  huts  for  the  miners  on  the  east  bank  of  the  river  where 
a  clearing  had  been  made  and  called  East  Brady.  On  the  other 
side  of  the  Allegheny  the  furnaces  and  rolling  mills  were  hidden 
away  in  a  narrow,  winding  valley  that  set  back  into  the  forest- 
clad  hills,  growing  deeper  and  narrower  with  every  mile.  It 
was  to  me,  who  ha'"!  been  used  to  seeing  the  sun  rise  and  set  over 
a  level  plain  where  the  winds  of  heaven  blew  as  they  listed, 
from  the  first  like  a  prison.  I  climbed  the  hills  only  to  find 
that  there  were  bigger  hills  beyond  —  an  endless  sea  of  swelling 
billows  of  green  \sithout  a  clearing  in  it.  I  spent  all  Sunday 
roaming  through  it,  miles  and  miles,  to  find  an  outlook  from 
which  I  might  see  the  end;  but  there  was  none.  A  horrible 
fit  of  homesickness  came  upon  me.  The  days  I  managed  to  get 
through  by  working  hard  and  making  observations  on  the 
American  language.  In  this  I  had  a  volunteer  assistant  in  Julia, 
the  pretty,  barefooted  daughter  of  a  coal-miner,  who  hung 
around  and  took  an  interest  in  what  was  going  on.    But  she 


26 


THE  MAKING  OF  AN  AMERICAN 


disappeared  after  I  had  asked  her  to  explain  what  setting  one's 
cap  for  any  one  meant.  I  was  curious  because  I  had  heard 
her  mother  say  to  a  neighbor  that  JuHa  was  doing  that  to  me. 
But  the  evenings  were  very  lonesome.  The  girl  in  our  boarding- 
house  washed  dishes  always  to  one  tune,  ^'The  Letter  that 
Never  Came.''  It  was  not  a  cheerful  tune  and  not  a  cheerful 
subject,  for  I  had  had  no  news  from  home  since  I  left.  I  can 
hear  her  'yet,  shrieking  and  clattering  her  dishes,  with  the  frogs 
yelling  accompaniment  in  the  creek  that  mumbled  in  the  valley. 
I  never  could  abide  American  frogs  since.  There  is  rest  in  the 
ko-ax,  ko-ax !  of  its  European  brother,  but  the  breathless  yi !  yi ! 
of  our  American  frogs  makes  me  feel  always  as  if  I  wanted  to 
die  —  which  I  don't. 

In  making  the  clearing,  I  first  saw  an  American  wood-cutter 
swing  an  axe,  and  the  sight  filled  me  with  admiration  for  the  man 
and  the  axe  both.  It  was  a  ^'double-bitter,"  and  he  a  typical 
long-armed  and  long-limbed  backwoodsman.  I  also  had  learned 
to  use  the  axe,  but  anything  like  the  way  he  swung  it,  first  over 
one,  then  over  the  other  shoulder,  making  it  tell  in  long,  clean 
cuts  at  every  blow,  I  had  never  dreamt  of.  It  was  splendid. 
I  wished  myself  back  in  Copenhagen  just  long  enough  to  tell 
the  numskulls  there,  who  were  distrustful  of  American  tools, 
which  were  just  beginning  to  come  into  the  market,  that  they 
didn't  know  what  they  were  talking  about.  Of  course  it  was 
reasonable  that  the  good  tools  should  come  from  the  country 
where  they  had  good  use  for  them. 

There  was  a  settlement  of  honest  Welshmen  in  the  back  hills, 
and  the  rumor  that  a  Dane  had  come  into  the  valley  reached  it 
in  due  course.  It  brought  down  a  company  of  four  sturdy 
miners,  who  trudged  five  miles  over  bad  land  of  a  Sunday  to 
see  what  I  was  Hke.  The  Danes  who  live  in  Welsh  song  and 
story  must  have  been  grievous  giants,  for  they  were  greatly 
disgusted  at  sight  of  me,  and  spoke  their  minds  about  it  without 


I  TAKE  A  HAND  IN  THE  GA:\IE 


27 


reserve,  even  with  some  severity,  as  if  I  were  guilty  of  some  sort 
of  an  imposition  on  the  valley. 

It  could  hardly  have  been  this  introduction  that  tempted 
me  to  try  coal-mining.  I  have  forgotten  how^  it  came  about  — 
probably  through  some  temporary  slackness  in  the  building 
trade;  but  I  did  try,  and  one  day  was  enough  for  me.  The 
company  mined  its  own  coal.  Such  as  it  was,  it  cropped  out  of 
the  hills  right  and  left  in  narrow^veins,  sometimes  too  shallow 
to  work,  seldom  affording  more  space  to  the  digger  than  barely 
enough  to  permit  him  to  stand  upright.  You  did  not  go  dowTi 
through  a  shaft,  but  straight  in  through  the  side  of  a  hill  to  the 
bowels  of  the  mountain,  following  a  track  on  which  a  little 
donkey  drew  the  coal  to  the  mouth  of  the  mine  and  sent  it  down 
the  incline  to  run  up  and  down  a  hill  a  mile  or  more  by  its  own 
gravity  before  it  reached  the  place  of  unloading.  Through  one 
of  these  we  marched  in,  Adler  and  I,  one  summer  morning  with 
new  pickaxes  on  our  shoulders  and  nasty  little  oil  lamps  fixed 
in  our  hats  to  light  us  through  the  darkness  where  every  second 
we  stumbled  over  chunks  of  slate  rock,  or  into  pools  of  water 
that  oozed  through  from  above.  An  old  miner  whose  way  lay 
past  the  fork  in  the  tunnel  where  our  lead  began  showed  us  how 
to  use  our  picks  ai\d  the  timbers  to  brace  the  slate  that  roofed 
over  the  vein,  and  left  us  to  ourselves  in  a  chamber  perhaps  ten 
feet  wide  and  the  height  of  a  man. 

We  were  to  be  paid  by  the  ton,  I  forget  how  much,  but  it 
was  very  little,  and  we  lost  no  time  getting  to  work.  We  had  to 
dig  away  the  coal  at  the  floor  with  our  picks,  lying  on  our  knees 
to  do  it,  and  afterward  drive  wedges  under  the  roof  to  loosen 
the  mass.  It  was  hard  work,  and,  entirely  inexperienced  as 
we  were,  we  made  but  little  headway.  As  the  day  wore  on, 
the  darkness  and  silence  grew  very  oppressive,  and  made  us 
start  nervously  at  the  least  thing.  The  sudden  arrival  of  our 
donkey  with  its  cart  gave  me  a  dreadful  fright.    The  friendly 


28 


THE  MAKING  OF  AN  AMERICAN 


beast  greeted  us  with  a  joyous  bray  and  rubbed  its  shaggy  sides 
against  us  in  the  most  companionable  way.  In  the  flickering 
light  of  my  lamp  I  caught  sight  of  its  long  ears  waving. over  me 
—  I  don't  believe  I  had  seen  three  donkeys  before  in  my  life ; 
there  were  none  where  I  came  from  —  and  heard  that  demoniac 
shriek,  and  I  verily  believe  I  thought  the  evil  one  had  come  for 
me  in  person.    I  know  that  I  nearly  fainted. 

That  donkey  was  a  discerning  animal.  I  think  it  knew  when 
it  first  set  eyes  on  us  that  we  were  not  going  to  overwork  it; 
and  we  didn't.  When,  toward  evening,  we  quit  work,  after 
narrowly  escaping  being  killed  by  a  large  stone  that  fell  from  the 
roof  in  consequence  of  our  neglect  to  brace  it  up  properly,  our 
united  efforts  had  resulted  in  barely  filling  two  of  the  little  carts, 
and  we  had  earned,  if  I  recollect  aright,  something  like  sixty 
cents  each.  The  fall  of  the  roof  robbed  us  of  all  desire  to  try 
mining  again.  It  knocked  the  lamps  from  our  hats,  and,  in 
darkness  that  could  almost  be  felt, .  we  groped  our  way  back  to 
the  light  along  the  track,  getting  more  badly  frightened  as  we 
went.  The  last  stretch  of  the  way  we  ran,  holding  each  other's 
hands  as  though  w^e  were  not  men  and  miners,  but  two  fright- 
ened children  in  the  dark. 

As  we  emerged  from  the  damp  gap  in  the  mountain  side,  the 
sunset  was  upon  the  hill.  Peaceful  sounds  came  up  from  the 
valley  where  the  shadows  lay  deep.  Gangs  of  men  were  going 
home  from  the  day's  toil  to  their  evening  rest.  It  seemed  to  me 
that  I  had  been  dead  and  had  come  back  to  life.  The  world 
was  never  so  wondrous  fair.  My  companion  stood  looking  out 
over  the  landscape  with  hungry  eyes.  Neither  of  us  spoke, 
but  when  the  last  gleam  had  died  out  in  the  window  of  the  stone 
church  we  went  straight  to  the  company's  store  and  gave  up 
our  picks.  I  have  never  set  foot  in  a  coal  mine  since,  and  have 
not  the  lea^t  desire  to  do  so. 

I  was  back  in  the  harness  of  the  carpenter-shop  when,  in  the 


I  TAKE  A  HAND  IX  THE  GAME 


29 


middle  of  July,  the  news  struck  dowTi  in  our  quiet  community 
like  a  bombshell  that  France  had  declared  war  on  Prussia; 
also  that  Denmark  was  expected  to  join  her  forces  to  those  of 
her  old  ally  and  take  revenge  for  the  great  robbery  of  1864.  I 
dropped  my  tools  the  moment  I  heard  it,  and  flew  rather  than 
ran  to  the  company's  office  to  demand  my  time ;  thence  to  our 
boarding-house  to  pack.  Adler  reasoned  and  entreated,  called 
it  an  insane  notion,  but,  when  he  saw  that  nothing  would  stop 
me,  lent  a  hand  in  stuffing  my  trimk,  praying  pathetically  be- 
tween pulls  that  his  countr^Tnen  would  make  short  work  of  me, 
as  they  certainly  would  of  France.  I  heeded  nothing.  All  the 
hot  blood  of  youth  was  surging  through  me.  I  remember  the 
defeat,  the  himaihation  of  the  flag  I  loved,  —  aye !  and  love 
yet,  for  there  is  no  flag  like  the  flag  of  my  fathers,  save  only  that 
of  my  children  and  of  my  manhood,  —  and  I  remembered,  too, 
Elizabeth,  with  a  sudden  hope.  I  would  be  near  her  then,  and 
I  would  earn  fame  and  glor}- .  The  carpenter  would  come  back 
with  shoulder-straps.  Perhaps  then,  in  the  castle  ...  1  shoul- 
dered my  trunk  and  ran  for  the  station.  Such  tools,  clothes, 
and  things  as  it  would  not  hold  I  sold  for  what  they  would  fetch, 
and  boarded  the  next  train  for  Buffalo,  which  was  as  far  as  my 
money  would  take  :ne. 

I  cannot  resist  the  temptation  at  this  point  to  carry  the  story 
thirty  years  forward  to  last  winter,  in  order  to  point  out  one  of 
the  queer  happenings  which  long  ago  caused  me  to  be  known 
to  my  friends  as  'Hhe  man  of  coincidences."  I  have  long  since 
ceased  to  consider  them  as  such,  though  in  this  one  there  is  no 
other  present  significance  than  that  it  decided  a  point  which 
I  had  been  turning  over  in  my  own  mmd,  of  moment  to  me  and 
my  publisher.  I  was  lecturing  in  Pittsburg  at  the  time,  and 
ran  up  to  take  another  look  at  Brady's  Bend.  I  found  the  valley 
deserted  and  dead.  The  mills  were  gone.  Disaster  had  over- 
taken them  in  the  panic  of  1873,  and  all  that  remained  of  the 


30 


THE  MAKING  OF  AN  AMERICAN 


huge  plant  was  a  tottering  stump  of  the  chimney  and  clusters 
of  vacant  houses  dropping  to  pieces  here  and  there.  Young 
trees  grew  out  of  the  cold  ashes  in  the  blast-furnace.  All  about 
was  desolation.  Strolling  down  by  the  river  with  the  editor 
of  the  local  paper  in  East  Brady,  which  had  grown  into  a  slow 
little  railroad  town,  my  eye  fell  upon  a  wrecked  hut  in  which 
I  recognized  the  company's  office.  The  shutters  were  gone, 
the  door  hung  on  one  hinge,  and  the  stairs  had  rotted  away, 
but  we  climbed  in  somehow.  It  was  an  idle  quest,  said  my 
companion ;  all  the  books  and  papers  had  been  sold  the  summer 
before  to  a  Pittsburg  junkman,  who  came  with  a  cart  and  pitch- 
forked them  into  it  as  so  much  waste  paper.  His  trail  was  plain 
within.  The  floor  was  littered  with  torn  maps  and  newspapers 
from  the  second  term  of  President  Grant.  In  a  rubbish  heap 
I  kicked  against  something  more  solid  and  picked  it  up.  It 
was  the  only  book  left  in  the  place:  the  draw-book''  for  the 
years  1870-72 ;  and  almost  the  first  name  I  read  was  my  own, 
as  having  received,  on  July  19,  1870,  $10.63  in  settlement  of 
my  account  with  the  Brady's  Bend  Company  when  I  started 
for  the  war.  My  companion  stared.  I  wrapped  up  the  book 
and  took  it  away  with  me.  I  considered  that  I  had  a  moral 
right  to  it ;  but  if  anybody  questions  it,  it  is  at  his  service. 

Buffalo  was  full  of  Frenchmen,  but  they  did  not  receive  me 
with  a  torchlight  procession.  They  even  shrugged  their  shoul- 
ders when  good  old  Pater  Bretton  took  up  my  cause  and  tried 
to  get  me  forwarded  at  least  to  New  York.  The  one  patriot 
I  found  to  applaud  my  high  resolve  was  a  French  pawnbroker, 
who,  with  many  compliments  and  shoulder  pattings,  took  my 
trunk  and  all  its  contents,  after  I  had  paid  my  board  out  of  it, 
in  exchange  for  a  ticket  to  New  York.  He  took  my  watch  too, 
but  that  didn't  keep  time.  I  remember  seeing  my  brush  go 
with  a  griiii  smile.  Having  no  clothes  to  brush,  I  had  no  need 
of  it  any  longer..  That  pawnbroker  was  an  artist.    The  year 


1  TAKE  A  HAND  IN  THE  GA^IE 


31 


after,  when  I  was  in  Buffalo  again^  it  occurred  to  me  to  go  in 
and  see  if  I  could  get  back  any  of  my  belongings.  I  was  just 
a  bit  ashamed  of  myself,  and  represented  that  I  was  a  brother 
of  the  young  hothead  w^ho  had  gone  to  the  war.  I  thought  I 
discovered  a  pair  of  trousers  that  had  been  mine  hanging  up  in 
his  store,  but  the  Frenchman  was  quicker  than  I.  His  eyes 
followed  mine,  and  he  took  instant  umbrage  :  — 

"  So  your  brother  vas  one  shump,  vas  he ?  he  yelled.  Your 
brother  vas  a  long  sight  better  man  zan  you,  mine  frient.  He 
go  fight  for  la  France.  You  stay  here.  Get  out!''  And  he 
put  me  out,  and  saved  the  day  and  the  trousers. 

It  never  was  a  good  plan  for  me  to  lie.  It  never  did  work  out 
right,  not  once.  I  have  found  the  only  safe  plan  to  be  to  stick 
to  the  truth  and  let  the  house  come  down  if  it  must.  It  will 
come  down  anyhow. 

I  reached  New  York  with  just  one  cent  in  my  pocket,  and  put 
up  at  a  boarding-house  whtre  the  charge  was  one  dollar  a  day. 
In  this  no  moral  obliciuity  was  involved.  I  had  simply  reached 
the  goal  for  which  I  had  sacrificed  all,  and  felt  sure  that  the 
French  people  or  the  Danish  Consul  would  do  the  rest  quickl3^ 
But  there  was  evidently  something  wTong  somewhere.  The 
Danish  Consul  could  only  register  my  demand  to  be  returned  to 
Denmark  in  the  event  of  war.  They  have  my  letter  at  the  office 
yet,  he  tells  me,  and  they  will  call  me  out  with  the  reserves. 
The  French  were  fitting  out  no  volunteer  army  that  I  could 
get  on  the  track  of,  and  nobody  was  paying  the  passage  of  fight- 
ing men.  The  end  of  it  was  that,  after  pawning  my  revolver 
and  my  top-boots,  the  only  valuable  possessions  I  had  left,  to 
pay  for  my  lodging,  I  was  thrown  on  the  street,  and  told  to  come 
back  when  I  had  more  money.  That  night  I  wandered  about 
New  York  with  a  gripsack  that  had  only  a  linen  duster  and  a 
pair  of  socks  in  it,  turning  "over  in  my  mind  what  to  do  next. 
Tow^ard  midnight  I  passed  a  house  in  Clinton  Place  that  was 


32  THE  MAKING  OF  AN  AMERICAN 


lighted  up  festively.  Laughter  and  the  hum  of  many  voices 
came  from  within.  I  listened.  They  spoke  French.  A  society 
of  Frenchmen  having  their  annual  dinner,  the  watchman  in  the 
block  told  me.  There  at  last  was  my  chance.  I  went  up  the 
steps  and  rang  the  bell.  A  flunkey  in  a  dress-suit  opened,  but 
when  he  saw  that  I  was  not  a  guest,  but  to  all  appearances  a  tramp, 
he  tried  to  put  me  out.  I,  on  my  part,  tried  to  explain.  There 
was  an  altercation,  and  two  gentlemen  of  the  society  appeared. 
They  listened  impatiently  to  what  I  had  to  say,  then,  without  a 
word,  thrust  me  into  the  street  and  slammed  the  door  in  my  face. 

It  was  too  much.  Inwardly  raging,  I  shook  the  dust  of  the 
city  from  my  feet,  and  took  the  most  direct  route  out  of  it, 
straight  up  Third  Avenue.  I  walked  till  the  stars  in  the  east 
began  to  pale,  and  then  climbed  into  a  wagon  that  stood  at  the 
curb,  to  sleep.  I  did  not  notice  that  it  was  a  milk-wagon.  The 
sun  had  not  risen  yet  when  the  driver  came,  unceremoniously 
dragged  me  out  by  the  feet,  and  dumped  me  into  the  gutter. 
On  I  went  with  my  gripsack,  straight  ahead,  until  toward  noon 
I  reached  Fordham  College,  famished  and  footsore.  I  had  eaten 
nothing  since  the  previous  day,  and  had  vainly  tried  to  make 
a  bath  in  the  Bronx  River  do  for  breakfast.  Not  yet  could  I 
cheat  my  stomach  that  way. 

The  college  gates  were  open,  and  I  strolled  wearily  in,  without 
aim  or  purpose.  On  a  lawn  some  young  men  were  engaged  in 
athletic  exercises,  and  I  stopped  to  look  and  admire  the  beautiful 
shade-trees  and  the  imposing  building.  So  at  least  it  seems  to 
me  at  this  distance.  An  old  monk  in  a  cowl,  whose  noble  face 
I  sometimes  recall  in  my  dreams,  came  over  and  asked  kindly 
if  I  was  not  hungry.  I  was  in  all  conscience  fearfully  hungry, 
and  I  said  so,  though  I  did  not  mean  to.  I  had  never  seen  a 
real  live  monk  before,  and  my  Lutheran  training  had  not  exactly 
inclined  m^  in  their  favor.  I  ate  of  the  food  set  before  me,  not 
without  qualms  of  conscience,  and  with  a  secret  suspicion  that 


I  TAKE  A  HAND  IN  THE  GAME 


33 


I  would  next  be  asked  to  abjure  my  faith,  or  at  least  do  homage 
to  the  Virgin  Mary,  which  I  was  firmly  resolved  not  to  do.  But 
when,  the  meal  finished,  I  was  sent  on  my  way  with  enough  to 
do  me  for  supper,  without  the  least  allusion  having  been  made 
to  my  soul,  I  felt  heartily  ashamed  of  myself.  I  am  just  as 
good  a  Protestant  as  I  ever  was.  Among  my  own  I  am  a  kind 
of  heretic  even,  because  I  cannot  put  up  with  the  apostolic  suc- 
cession; but  I  have  no  quarrel  with  the  excellent  charities  of 
the  Roman  Church,  or  with  the  noble  spirit  that  animates 
them.    I  learned  that  lesson  at  Fordham  thirty  years  ago. 

Up  the  railroad  track  I  went,  and  at  night  hired  out  to  a 
truck-farmer,  with  the  freedom  of  his  hay-mow  for  my  sleeping 
quarters.  But  when  I  had  hoed  cucumbers  three  days  in  a 
scorching  sun,  till  my  back  ached  as  if  it  were  going  to  break, 
and  the  farmer  guessed  that  he  would  call  it  square  for  three 
shillings,  I  went  farther.  \  man  is  not  necessarily  a  philan- 
thropist, it  seems,  because  he  tills  the  soil.  I  did  not  hire  out 
again.  I  did  odd  jobs  to  earn  my  meals,  and  slept  in  the  fields 
at  night,  still  turning  over  in  my  mind  how  to  get  across  the  sea. 
An  incident  of  those  wanderings  comes  to  mind  while  I  am 
writing.  They  were  carting  in  hay,  and  when  night  came  on, 
somewhere  about  Mount  Vernon,  I  gathered  an  armful  of  wisps 
that  had  fallen  from  the  loads,  and  made  a  bed  for  myself  in  a 
wagon-shed  by  the  roadside.  In  the  middle  of  the  night  I  was 
awakened  by  a  loud  outcry.  A  fierce  light  shone  in  my  face. 
It  was  the  lamp  of  a  carriage  that  had  been  driven  into  the  shed. 
I  was  lying  between  the  horse^s  feet  unhurt.  A  gentleman 
sprang  from  the  carriage,  more  frightened  than  I,  and  bent  over 
me.  When  he  found  that  I  had  suffered  no  injury,  he  put  his 
hand  in  his  pocket  and  held  out  a  silver  quarter. 

'^Go,^'  he  said,  '^and  drink  it  up." 
Drink  it  up  yourself!"  I  shouted  angrily.    ^'What  do  you 
take  me  for?" 

D 


34 


THE  MAKING  OF  AN  AMERICAN 


They  were  rather  high  heroics,  seeing  where  I  was,  but  he 
saw  nothing  to  laugh  at.  He  looked  earnestly  at  me  for  a 
moment,  then  held  out  his  hand  and  shook  mine  heartily.  ''I 
believe  you,'^  he  said ;  ''yet  you  need  it,  or  you  would  not  sleep 
here.    Now  will  you  take  it  from  me? And  I  took  the  money. 

The  next  day  it  rained,  and  the  next  day  after  that,  and  I 
footed  it  back  to  the  city,  still  on  my  vain  quest.  A  quarter  is 
not  a  great  capital  to  subsist  on  in  New  York  when  one  is  not 
a  beggar  and  has  no  friends.  Two  days  of  it  drove  me  out 
again  to  find  at  least  the  food  to  keep  me  alive ;  but  in  those 
two  days  I  met  the  man  who,  long  years  after,  was  to  be  my 
honored  chief,  Charles  A.  Dana,  the  editor  of  the  Sun.  There 
had  been  an  item  in  the  Sun  about  a  volunteer  regiment  being 
fitted  out  for  France.  I  went  up  to  the  office,  and  was  admitted 
to  Mr.  Dana's  presence.  I  fancy  I  must  have  appealed  to  his 
sense  of  the  ludicrous,  dressed  in  top-boots  and  a  linen  duster 
much  the  worse  for  wear,  and  demanding  to  be  sent  out  to  fight. 
He  knew  nothing  about  recruiting.  Was  I  French?  No, 
Danish;  it  had  been  in  his  paper  about  the  regiment.  He 
smiled  a  little  at  my  faith,  and  said  editors  sometimes  did  not 
know  about  everything  that  was  in  their  papers.  I  turned  to 
go,  grievously  disappointed,  but  he  called  me  back. 

''Have  you,"  he  said,  looking  searchingly  at  me,  "have  you 
had  your  breakfast?'' 

No,  God  knows  that  I  had  not;  neither  that  day  nor  for 
many  days  before.  That  was  one  of  the  things  I  had  at  last 
learned  to  consider  among  the  superfluities  of  an  effete  civiliza- 
tion. I  suppose  I  had  no  need  of  telling  it  to  him,  for  it  was 
plain  to  read  in  my  face.  He  put  his  hand  in  his  pocket  and 
pulled  out  a  dollar. 

"There,"  he  said,  "go  and  get  your  breakfast;  and  better 
give  up  the  war." 

Give  up  the  war !  and  for  a  breakfast.  I  spurned  the  dollar  hotly. 


I  TAKE  A  HAND  IN  THE  GA^D']  35 


'^I  came  here  to  enlist,  not  to  beg  money  for  breakfast/'  I  said, 
and  strode  out  of  the  office,  my  head  in  the  air  but  my  stomach 
crjdng  out  miserably  in  rebellion  against  my  pride.  I  revenged 
myself  upon  it  by  leaving  my  top-boots  with  the  uncle,"  who 
was  my  only  friend  and  relative  here,  and  filling  my  stomach 
upon  the  proceeds.  I  had  one  good  dinner  anyhow,  for  when 
I  got  through  there  was  only  twenty-five  cents  left  of  the  dollar 
I  borrowed  upon  my  last  article  of  dress.''  That  I  paid  for  a 
ticket  to  Perth  Amboy,  near  which  place  I  found  work  in  Pfeif- 
fer's  clay-bank. 

Pfeiffer  was  a  German,  but  his  wife  was  Irish  and  so  were 
his  hands,  all  except  a  giant  Norwegian  and  myself.  The  third 
day  was  Sunday,  and  was  devoted  to  drinking  much  beer,  which 
Pfeiffer,  with  an  eye  to  business,  furnished  on  the  premises. 
When  they  were  drunk,  the  tribe  turned  upon  the  Norwegian, 
and  threw  him  out.  It  seems  that  this  was  a  regular  weekly 
occurrence.  Ale  they  fired  out  at  the  same  time,  but  afterward 
paid  no  attention  to  me.  The  whole  crew  of  them  perched  on 
the  Norwegian  and  belabored  him  with  broomsticks  and  bale- 
sticks  until  the}^  roused  the  sleeping  Berserk  in  him.  As  I  was 
coming  to  his  relief,  I  saw  the  human  heap  heave  and  rock. 
From  under  it  aro^e  the  enraged  giant,  tossed  his  tormentors 
aside  as  if  they  were  so  much  chaff,  battered  down  the  door  of 
the  house  in  which  they  took  refuge,  and  threw  them  all, 
Mrs.  Pfeiffer  included,  through  the  window.  They  were  not 
hurt,  and  within  two  hours  they  were  drinking  more  beer  to- 
gether and  swearing  at  one  another  endearingly.  I  concluded 
that  I  had  better  go  on,  though  Mr.  Pfeiffer  regretted  that  he 
never  paid  his  hands  in  the  middle  of  the  month.  It  appeared 
afterward  that  he  objected  likewise  to  paying  them  at  the  end 
of  the  month,  or  at  the  beginning  of  the  next.  He  owes  me  twr 
days'  wages  yet. 


CHAPTER  III 


I  Go  TO  War  at  Last  and  Sow  the  Sebd  of  Future 
Campaigns 

At  sunset  on  the  second  day  after  my  desertion  of  PfeifPer 
I  walked  across  a  footbridge  into  a  city  with  many  spires,  in 
one  of  which  a  chime  of  bells  rang  out  a  familiar  tune.  The 
city  was  New  Brunswick.  I  turned  down  a  side  street  where 
two  stone  churches  stood  side  by  side.  A  gate  in  the  picket 
fence  had  been  left  open,  and  I  went  in  looking  for  a  place  to 
sleep.  Back  in  the  churchyard  I  found  what  I  sought  in  the 
brownstone  slab  covering  the  tomb  of,  I  know  now,  an  old 
pastor  of  the  Dutch  Reformed  Church,  who  died  full  of  wisdom 
and  grace.  I  am  afraid  that  I  was  not  overburdened  with 
either,  or  I  might  have  gone  to  bed  with  a  full  stomach  too, 
instead  of  chewing  the  last  of  the  windfall  apples  that  had  been 
my  diet  on  mv  two  days'  trip;  but  if  he  slept  as  peacefully 
under  the  slab  as  I  slept  on  it,  he  was  doing  well.  I  had  for 
once  a  dry  bed,  and  brownstone  keeps  warm  long  after  the  sun 
has  set.  The  night  dews  and  the  snakes,  and  the  dogs  that 
kept  sniffing  and  growling  half  the  night  in  the  near  distance, 
had  made  me  tired  of  sleeping  in  the  fields.  The  dead  were 
much  better  company.  They  minded  their  own  business,  and 
let  a  fellow  alone. 

Before  sun-up  I  was  on  the  tow-path  looking  for  a  job.  Mules 
were  in  demand  there,  not  men.    The  drift  caught  me  once 

36 


I  GO  TO  WAR 


37 


more,  and  toward  evening  cast  me  up  at  a  country  town  then 
called  Little  Washington,  now  South  River.  How  I  got  there 
I  do  not  now  remember.  My  diary  from  those  days  says 
nothing  about  it.  Years  after,  I  went  back  over  that  road  and 
accepted  a  ^4ift"  from  a  farmer  going  my  way.  We  passed 
through  a  toll-gate,  and  I  wondered  how  the  keeper  came  to 
collect  uneven  money.  We  were  two  men  and  two  horses. 
When  I  came  back  the  day  after,  I  found  out.  So  many  cents, 
read  the  weather-beaten  sign  that  swung  from  the  gate,  for 
team  and  driver,  so  many  for  each  additional  beast.  I  had 
gone  through  as  an  additional  beast. 

A  short  walk  from  Little  Washington  I  found  work  in  Pettit^s 
brick-yard  at  $22  a  month  and  board.  That  night,  when  I 
turned  in  after  a  square  meal,  in  an  old  wagon  I  had  begged  for  a 
bed,  I  felt  like  a  capitalist.  I  took  to  the  wagon  because  one  look 
within  the  barracks  had  shown  them  to  be  impossible.  Whether 
it  was  that,  or  the  fact  that  most  of  the  other  hands  were  Ger- 
mans, who  felt  in  duty  bound  to  celebrate  each  victory  over  the 
French  as  it  was  reported  day  by  day,  and  so  provoked  me  to 
wrath  —  from  the  first  we  didn't  get  on.  They  made  a  point 
whenever  they  came  back  from  their  celebrations  in  the  village, 
of  dragging  my  wagon,  with  me  fast  asleep  in  it,  down  into  the 
river,  where  by  and  by  the  tide  rose  and  searched  me  out. 
Then  I  had  to  swim  for  it.  That  was  of  less  account.  Our 
costume  was  not  elaborate,  —  a  pair  of  overalls,  a  woollen 
shirt,  and  a  straw  hat,  that  was  all,  and  a  wetting  was  rather 
welcome  than  otherwise;  but  they  dubbed  me  Bismarck,  and 
that  was  not  to  be  borne.  My  passionate  protest  only  made 
them  laugh  the  louder.  Yet  they  were  not  an  ill-natured  lot, 
rather  the  reverse.  Saturday  afternoon  was  our  wash-day, 
when  we  all  sported  together  in  peace  and  harmony  in  the  river. 
When  we  came  out,  we  spread  our  clothes  to  dry  on  the  roof  of 
the-  barra-cVp  while  we  burrowed  each  in  a  hill  of  white  sand, 


38 


THE  MAKING  OF  AN  AMERICAN 


and  smoked  our  pipes  far  into  tlie  night,  with  only  our  heads 
and  the  hand  that  held  the  pipe  sticking  out.  That  was  for 
protection  against  mosquitoes.  It  must  have  been  a  sight, 
one  of  those  Saturday  night  confabs,  but  it  w^as  solid  comfort 
after  the  week^s  work. 

Bricks  are  made  literally  while  the  sun  shines.  The  day 
begins  with,  the  first  glimmer  of  light  in  the  east,  and  is  not  over 
till  the  ^' pits''  are  worked  out.  It  was  my  task  to  cart  clay  in 
the  afternoon  to  fill  them  up  again.  It  was  an  idle  enough  kind 
of  job.  All  I  had  to  do  was  to  walk  alongside  my  horse,  a  big 
white  beast  with  no  joints  at  all  except  where  its  legs  were  hinged 
to  the  backbone,  back  it  up  to  the  pit,  and  dump  the  load.  But, 
walking  so  in  the  autumn  sun,  I  fell  a-dreaming.  I  forgot  clay- 
bank  and  pit.  I  was  back  in  the  old  town  —  saw  her  play 
among  the  timber.  I  met  her  again  on  the  Long  Bridge.  I 
held  her  hands  once  nxore  in  that  last  meeting  —  the  while  I  was 
mechanically  backing  my  load  up  to  the  pit  and  making  ready 
to  dump  it.  Day-dreams  are  out  of  place  in  a  brick-yard. 
I  forgot  to  take  out  the  tail-board.  To  my  amazement,  I  be- 
held the  old  horse  skating  around,  making  frantic  efforts  to 
keep  its  grip  on  the  soil,  then  slowly  rise  before  my  bewildered 
gaze,  clawing  feebly  at  the  air  as  it  went  up  and  over,  back- 
wards into  the  pit,  load,  cart  and  all. 

I  wish  for  my  own  reputation  that  I  could  truly  say  I  wept 
for  the  ;X)or  beast.  I  am  sure  I  felt  for  it,  but  the  reproachful 
look  it  gave  me  as  it  lay  there  on  its  back,  its  four  feet  pointing 
skyward,  was  too  much.  I  sat  upon  the  edge  of  the  pit  and 
shouted  with  laughter,  feeling  thoroughly  ashamed  of  my 
levity.  Mr.  Pettit  himself  checked  it,  running  in  with  his 
boys  and  demanding  to  know  what  I  was  doing.  They  had  seen 
the  accident  from  the  office,  and  at  once  set  about  getting  the 
horse  out.  That  was  no  easy  matter.  It  was  not  hurt  at  all, 
but  it  had  fallen  so  as  to  bend  one  of  the  shafts  of  the  truck  like 


I  GO  TO  WAR 


39 


a  bow.  It  had  to  be  sawed  in  two  to  get  the  horse  out.  When 
that  was  done,  the  hea\y  ash  stick,  rebounding  suddenly,  stmck 
one  of  the  boys,  who  stood  by,  a  blow  on  the  head  that  laid  him 
out  senseless  beside  the  cart. 

It  was  no  time  for  laughter  then.  We  ran  for  water  and 
restoratives,  and  brought  him  to,  white  and  weak.  The  horse 
by  that  time  had  been  lifted  to  his  feet  and  stood  trembling  in 
every  limb,  read}^  to  drop.  It  was  a  sobered  driver  that  cUmbed 
out  of  the  pit  at  the  tail  end  of  the  procession  which  bore  young 
Pettit  home.  I  spent  a  miserable  hour  hanging  around  the  door 
of  the  house  waiting  for  news  of  him.  In  the  end  his  father 
came  out  to  comfort  me  with  the  assurance  that  he  would  be 
all  right.  I  was  not  even  discharged,  though  I  was  deposed 
from  the  wagon  to  the  command  of  a  truck  of  which  I  was  mj'self 
the  horse.  I  ^'ran  ouf  brick  from  the  /it  after  that  in  the 
morning. 

More  than  twenty  years  after,  addressing  the  students  of 
Rutgers  College,  I  told  them  of  my  experience  in  the  brick-yard 
which  was  so  near  them.  At  the  end  of  my  address  a  gentle- 
man came  up  to  me  and  said,  with  a  twinkle  in  his  eye : 

'^So  that  was  you,  was  it?  ]\Iy  name  is  Pettit,  and  I  work 
the  brick-yard  now.  I  helped  my  father  get  that  horse  out  of 
the  pit,  and  I  have  cause  to  remember  that  knock  on  the  head.'^ 
He  made  me  promise  sometime  to  tell  him  what  happened  to 
me  since,  and  if  he  will  attend  now  he  will  have  it  all. 

I  had  been  six  weeks  in  the  brick-yard  when  one  day  I  heard 
of  a  company  of  real  volunteers  that  was  ready  to  sail  for  France, 
and  forthwith  the  war  fever  seized  me  again.  That  night  I  set 
out  for  Little  Washington,  and  the  next  morning's  steamer  bore 
me  past  the  brick-yard,  where  the  German  hands  dropped 
their  barrows  and  cheered  me  on  with  a  howl  of  laughter  that 
was  yet  not  all  derision.  I  had  kept  my  end  up  with  them  and 
they  knew  it.    They  had  lately  let  my  sleeping-car  alone  in 


40 


THE  MAKING  OF  AN  AMERICAN 


the  old  barn.  Their  shouts  rang  in  my  ears,  nevertheless, 
when  I  reached  New  York  and  found  that  the  volunteers  were 
gone,  and  that  I  was  once  more  too  late.  I  fell  back  on  the 
French  Consul  then,  but  was  treated  very  cavalierly  there. 
I  suppose  I  became  a  nuisance,  for  when  I  called  the  twelfth 
or  twentieth  time  at  the  office  in  Bowling  Green,  he  waxed 
wroth  with  sudden  vehemence  and  tried  to  put  me  out. 

Then  ensued  the  only  fight  of  the  war  in  which  I  was  destined 
to  have  a  part,  and  that  on  the  wrong  side.  My  gorge  rose 
at  these  continual  insults.  I  grabbed  the  French  Consul  by 
the  nose,  and  in  a  moment  we  were  rolling  down  the  oval  stairs 
together,  clawing  and  fighting  for  all  we  were  worth.  I  know 
it  was  inexcusable,  but  consider  the  provocation ;  after  all  I  had 
sacrificed  to  serve  his  people,  to  be  put  out  the  second  time  like 
a  beggar  and  a  tramp !  I  had  this  one  chance  of  getting  even 
and  that  I  took  it  w£iS  only  human.  The  racket  we  made  on 
the  stairs  roused  the  whole  house.  All  the  clerks  ran  out  and 
threw  themselves  upon  me.  They  tore  me  away  ^rom  the 
sacred  person  of  the  Consul  and  thrust  me  out  into  the  street 
bleeding  and  with  a  swollen  eye  to  rage  there,  comforted  only 
by  the  assurance  that  without  a  doubt  both  his  were  black. 
I  am  a  little  ashamed  —  not  very  much  —  of  the  fact  that  it 
comforts  me- even  now  to  think  of  it.  He  really  did  me  a  favor, 
that  Consul;  but  he  was  no  good.    He  certainly  was  not. 

It  is  to  be  recorded  to  the  credit  of  my  resolution,  if  not  of 
my  common  sense,  that  even  after  that  I  made  two  attempts 
to  get  over  to  France.  The  one  was  with  the  captain  of  a 
French  man-of-war  that  lay  in  the  harbor.  He  would  not  listen 
to  me  at  all.  The  other,  and  the  last,  was  more  successful. 
I  actually  got  a  job  as  stoker  on  a  French  steamer  that  was  to 
sail  for  Havre  that  day  in  an  hour.  I  ran  all  the  way  down  to 
Battery  Place,  where  I  had  my  valise  in  a  boarding-house,  and 
all  the  way  back;  arriving  at  the  pier  breathless,  in  time  to  see 


I  GO  TO  WAR 


41 


my  steamer  swing  out  in  the  stream  beA^ond  my  reach.  It  was 
the  last  straw.  I  sat  on  the  stringpiece  and  wept  with  morti- 
fication. When  I  arose  and  went  my  way,  the  war  w^as  over, 
as  far  as  I  w^as  concerned.  It  was  that  in  fact,  as  it  speedily 
appeared.  The  country  which  to-day,  after  thirty  years  of 
trial  and  bereavement,  is  still  capable  of  the  Dreyfus  infamy, 
was  not  fit  to  hold  what  was  its  own.  I  am  glad  now  that  I 
did  not  go,  though  I  cannot  honestly  say  that  I  deserve  any 
credit  for  it. 

All  my  money  was  gone,  and  an  effort  I  made  to  join  a  rail- 
road gang  in  the  Spuyten  Duyvil  cut  came  to  nothing.  Again 
I  reenforced  my  credit  with  my  revolver  and  the  everlasting 
top-boots,  but  the  two  or  three  dollars  they  brought  at  the 
pawnshop  were  soon  gone,  and  once  more  I  was  turned  out  in 
the  street.  It  was  now  late  in  the  fall.  The  brick-making  season 
was  over.  The  city  was  full  of  idle  men.  My  last  hope,  a 
promise  of  employment  in  a  human-hair  factory,  failed,  and, 
homeless  and  penniless,  I  joined  the  great  army  of  tramps, 
wandering  about  the  streets  in  the  daytime  with  the  one  aim 
of  somehow  stilUng  the  hunger  that  gnawed  at  my  vitals, 
and  fighting  at  night  with  vagrant  curs  or  outcasts  as  miserable 
as  myself  for  the  pj-otection  of  some  sheltering  ash-bin  or  door- 
way. I  was  too  proud  in  all  my  misery  to  beg.  I  do  not 
beheve  I  ever  did.  But  I  remember  well  a  basement  window 
at  the  down-town  Delmonico's,  the  silent  appearance  of  my 
ravenous  face  at  which,  at  a  certain  hour  in  the  evening,  always 
evoked  a  generous  supply  of  meat-bones  and  rolls  from  a  white- 
capped  cook  who  spoke  French.  That  was  the  saving  clause. 
I  accepted  his  rolls  as  instalments  of  the  debt  his  country 
owed  me,  or  ought  to  owe  me,  for  my  unavailing  efforts  in  its 
behalf. 

It  was  under  such  auspices  that  I  made  the  acquaintance  of 
Mulberry  Bend,  the  Five  Points,  and  the  rest  of  the  slum,  with 


42  THE  MAKING  OF  AX  AMERICAN 


which  there  was  in  the  j^ears  to  come  to  be  a  reckoning.  For 
half  a  lifetime  afterward  they  were  my  haunts  by  day  and  by 
night,  as  a  police  reporter,  and  I  can  fairly  lay  claim,  it  seems  to 
me,  to  a  personal  knowledge  of  the  evil  I  attacked.  I  speak  of 
this  because,  in  a  batch  of  reviews  of  ''A  Ten  Years'  War"^ 
which  came  yesterday  from  my  publishers  to  me  there  is  one 
which  lays  it  all  to  maudUn  sensitiveness  "  on  my  part.  "  The 
slum,''  says  this  writer,  '^is  not  at  all  so  unspeakably  vile,"  and 
measures  for  relief  based  on  my  arraignment  '^must  be  neces- 
sarily abortive."  Every  once  in  a  while  I  am  asked  w^hy  I 
became  a  newspaper  man.  For  one  thing,  because  there  were 
writers  of  such  trash,  who,  themselves  comfortably  lodged,  have 
not  red  blood  enough  in  their  veins  to  feel  for  those  to  whom 
everything  is  denied,  and  not  sense  enough  to  make  out  the  facts 
when  they  see  them,  or  the}^  would  not  call  playgrounds,  school- 
houses,  and  better  tenements  ''abortive  measures."  Some  one 
had  to  tell  the  facts ;  that  is  one  reason  why  I  became  a  reporter. 
And  I  am  going  to  stay  one  until  the  last  of  that  ilk  has  ceased  to 
discourage  men  from  tr^ang  to  help  their  fellow^s  by  the  shortest 
cut  they  can  find,  whether  it  fits  in  a  theory  or  not.  I  don't  care 
two  pins  for  all  the  social  theories  that  were  ever  made  unless 
they  help  to  make  better  men  and  women  by  bettering  their  lot. 
I  have  had  cranks  of  that  order,  who  rated  as  sensible  beings  in 
the  ordinar}^  affairs  of  life,  tell  me  that  I  was  doing  harm  rather 
than  good  by  helping  improve  the  lot  of  the  poor  ;  it  delayed  the 
final  day  of  justice  we  were  waiting  for.  Not  I.  I  don't  pro- 
pose to  wait  an  hour  for  it,  if  I  can  help  bring  it  on ;  and  I  know 
I  can. 

There !    I  don't  believe  I  have  read  fifteen  reviews  of  any  of 
my  books.    Life  is  too  short ;  but  I  am  glad  I  did  not  miss  that 
one.    Those  are  the  fellows  for  whom  Roosevelt  is  not  a  good 
enough  reformer;  who  chill  the  enthusiasm  of  mankind  with  a 
\Now,  "  The  Battle  with  the  Slum." 


I  GO  TO  WAR 


43 


deadly  chill,  and  miscall  it  method  —  science.  The  science  of 
how  not  to  do  a  thing  —  yes  !    They  make  me  tired. 

There  was  until  last  winter  a  doorway  in  Chatham  Square, 
that  of  the  old  Barnum  clothing  store,  which  I  could  never  pass 
without  recalling  those  nights  of  hopeless  miserj^  with  the  police- 
man's periodic  Get  up  there  !  move  on  !"  reenforced  by  a  prod 
of  his  club  or  the  toe  of  his  boot.  I  slept  there,  or  tried  to  when 
crowded  out  of  the  tenements  in  the  Bend  by  their  utter  nasti- 
ness.  Cold  and  wet  weather  had  set  in,  and  a  linen  duster  was 
all  that  covered  my  back.  There  was  a  woollen  blanket  in  my 
trunk  which  I  had  from  home  —  the  one,  my  mother  had  told 
me,  in  which  I  was  wrapped  when  I  was  born ;  but  the  trunk  was 
in  the /'hotel''  as  security  for  money  I  owed  for  board,  and  I 
asked  for  it  in  vain.  I  was  now  too  shabby  to  get  work,  even  if 
there  had  been  any  to  get.  I  had  letters  still  to  friends  of  my 
family  in  New  York  who  might  have  helped  me,  but  hunger  and 
want  had  not  conquered  my  pride.  I  would  come  to  them,  if  at 
all,  as  their  equal,  and,  lest  I  fall  into  temptation,  I  destroyed 
the  letters.  So,  having  burned  my  bridges  behind  me,  I  was 
finally  and  utterly  alone  in  the  city,  with  the  winter  approaching 
and  every  shivering  night  in  the  streets  reminding  me  that  a  time 
was  rapidly  coming  when  such  a  life  as  I  led  could  no  longer  be 
endured. 

Not  in  a  thousand  years  would  I  be  likely  to  forget  the  night 
when  it  came.  It  had  rained  all  day,  a  cold  October  storm,  and 
night  found  me,  with  the  chill  downpour  unabated,  down  by  the 
North  River,  soaked  through  and  through,  with  no  chance  for  a 
supper,  forlorn  and  discouraged.  I  sat  on  the  bulwark,  listening 
to  the  falling  rain  and  the  swish  of  the  dark  tide,  and  thinking  of 
home.  How  far  it  seemed,  and  how  impassable  the  gulf  now 
between  the  "castle"  with  its  refined  ways,  between  her  in  her 
dainty  girlhood  and  me  sitting  there,  numbed  with  the  cold  that 
was  slowly  stealing  away  my  senses  with  my  courage.    There  was 


44  THE  MAKING  OF  AN  AMERICAN 


warmth  and  cheer  where  she  was.    Here   An  overpowering 

sense  of  desolation  came  upon  me.  I  hitched  a  little  nearer  the 
edge.  What  if  —  ?  Would  they  miss  me  much  or  long  at 
home  if  no  word  came  from  me?  Perhaps  they  might  never 
hear.  What  was  the  use  of  keeping  it  up  any  longer  with,  God 
help  us,  everything  against  and  nothing  to  back  a  lonely  lad  ? 

And  even  then  the  help  came.  A  wet  and  shivering  body  was 
pressed  against  mine,  and  I  felt  rather  than  heard  a  piteous 
whine  in  my  ear.  It  was  my  companion  in  misery,  a  little  out- 
cast black-and-tan,  afflicted  with  fits,  that  had  shared  the  shelter 
of  a  friendly  doorway  with  me  one  cold  night  and  had  clung  to 
me  ever  since  with  a  loyal  affection  that  was  the  one  bright  spot 
in  my  hard  life.  As  my  hand  stole  mechanically  down  to  caress 
it,  it  crept  upon  my  knees  and  licked  my  face,  as  if  it  meant  to  tell 
me  that  there  was  one  who  understood ;  that  I  was  not  alone. 
And  the  love  of  the  faithful  little  beast  thawed  the  icicles  in  my 
heart.  I  picked  it  up  in  my  arms  and  fled  from  the  tempter ;  fled 
to  where  there  were  lights  and  men  moving,  if  they  cared  less  for 
me  than  I  for  them  —  anywhere  so  that  I  saw  and  heard  the 
river  no  more. 

In  the  midnight  hour  we  walked  into  the  Church  Street  police 
station  and  asked  for  lodging.  The  rain  was  still  pouring  in 
torrents.  The  sergeant  spied  the  dog  under  my  tattered  coat 
and  gruffly  told  me  to  put  it  out,  if  I  wanted  to  sleep  there.  I 
pleaded  for  it  in  vain.  There  was  no  choice.  To  stay  in  the 
street  was  to  perish.  So  I  left  my  dog  out  on  the  stoop,  where  it 
curled  up  to  wait  for  me.  Poor  little  friend !  It  was  its  last 
watch.  The  lodging-room  was  jammed  with  a  foul  and  stewing 
crowd  of  tramps.  A  loud-mouthed  German  was  holding  forth 
about  the  war  in  Europe,  and  crowding  me  on  my  plank.  Cold 
and  hunger  had  not  sufficed  to  put  out  the  patriotic  spark  within 
me.  It  was  promptly  fanned  into  flame,  and  I  told  him  what  I 
thought  of  him .  and  his  crew.    Some  Irishmen  cheered  and 


I  GO  TO  WAR 


45 


fomented  trouble,  and  the  doorman  came  in  threatening  to  lock 
us  all  up.  I  smothered  my  disgust  at  the  place  as  well  as  I  could, 
and  slept,  wearied  nearly  to  death. 

In  the  middle  of  the  night  I  awoke  with  a  feeling  that  some- 
thing was  ^Tong.  Instinctively  I  felt  for  the  little  gold  locket  I 
wore  under  my  shirt,  with  a  part  of  the  precious  curl  in  it  that 
was  my  last  link  with  home.  It  was  gone.  I  had  felt  it  there 
the  last  thing  before  I  fell  asleep.  One  of  the  tramp  lodgers  had 
cut  the  string  and  stolen  it.  With  angry  tears  I  went  up  and 
complained  to  the  sergeant  that  I  had  been  robbed.  He  scowled 
at  me  over  the  blotter,  called  me  a  thief,  and  said  that  he  had  a 
good  mind  to  lock  me  up.  How  should  I,  a  tramp  boy,  have 
come  by  a  gold  locket?  He  had  heard,  he  added,  that  I  had 
said  in  the  lodging-room  that  I  wished  the  French  would  win, 
and  he  would  only  be  giving  me  what  I  deserved  if  he  sent  me  to 
the  Island.  I  heard  and  understood.  He  was  himself  a  German. 
All  my  sufferings  rose  up  before  me,  all  the  bitterness  of  my  soul 
poured  itself  out  upon  him.  I  do  not  know  what  I  said.  I 
remember  that  he  told  the  doorman  to  put  me  out.  And  he 
seized  me  and  threw  me  out  of  the  door,  coming  after  to  kick  me 
dowm  the  stoop. 

My  dog  had  been  waiting,  never  taking  its  eyes  off  the  door, 
until  I  should  come  out.  When  it  saw  me  in  the  grasp  of  the 
doorman,  it  fell  upon  him  at  once,  fastening  its  teeth  in  his  leg. 
He  let  go  of  me  with  a  yell  of  pain,  seized  the  poor  little  beast  by 
the  legs,  and  beat  its  brains  out  against  the  stone  steps. 

At  the  sight  a  blind  rage  seized  me.  Raving  like  a  madman, 
I  stormed  the  police  station  with  paving-stones  from  the  gutter, 
The  fury  of  my  onset  frightened  even  the  sergeant,  who  saw, 
perhaps,  that  he  had  gone  too  far,  and  he  called  two  policemen 
to  disarm  and  conduct  me  out  of  the  precinct.  Anywhere  so  that 
he  got  rid  of  me.  They  marched  me  to  the  nearest  ferry  and 
turned  me  loose.    The  ferry-master  halted  me.    I  had  no  money, 


46 


THE  MAKING  OF  AN  AMERICAN 


but  I  gave  him  a  silk  handkerchief,  the  last  thing  about  me  that 
had  any  value,  and  for  that  he  let  me  cross  to  Jersey  City.  I 
shook  the  dust  of  New  York  from  my  feet,  vowing  that  I  would 
never  return,  'and,  setting  my  face  toward  the  west,  marched 
straight  out  the  first  railroad  track  I  came  to. 

And  now,  right  here,  begins  the  part  of  my  story  that  is  my 
only  excuse  for  writing  down  these  facts,  though  it  will  not 
appear  for  a  while  yet.  The  outrage  of  that  night  became,  in 
the  providence  of  God,  the  means  of  putting  an  end  to  one  of  the 
foulest  abuses  that  ever  disgraced  a  Christian  city,  and  a  main- 
spring in  the  battle  with  the  slum  as  far  as  my  share  in  it  is  con- 
cerned.   My  dog  did  not  die  unavenged. 

I  walked  all  day,  following  the  track,  and  in  the  afternoon 
crossed  the  long  trestlework  of  the  Jersey  Central  Railroad  over 
Newark  Bay,  with  my  face  set  toward  Philadelphia.  I  had 
friends  there,  distant  relatives,  and  had  at  last  made  up  my  mind 
to  go  to  them  and  asK  them  to  start  me  afresh.  On  the  road 
which  I  had  chosen  for  myself  I  had  come  to  the  jumping-off 
place.  Before  night  I  found  company  in  other  tramps  who  had 
been  over  the  road  before  and  knew  just  what  towns  to  go  around 
and  which  to  walk  through  boldly.  Rahway,  if  I  remember 
rightly,  was  one  of  those  to  be  severely  shunned.  I  discovered 
presently  that  I  was  on  the  great  tramps^  highway,  with  the 
column  moving  south  on  its  autumn  hegira  to  warmer  climes. 
I  cannot  say  I  fancied  the  company.  Tramps  never  had  any 
attraction  for  me,  as  a  sociological  problem  or  otherwise.  I  was 
compelled,  more  than  once,  to  be  of  and  with  them,  but  I  shook 
their  company  as  quickly  as  I  could.  As  for  the  problem'^ 
they  are  supposed  to  represent,  I  think  the  workhouse  and  the 
police  are  quite  competent  to  deal  with  that,  provided  it  is  not  a 
Tammany  police.  It  does  not  differ  appreciably  from  the  prob- 
lem of  hun^an  laziness  in  any  other  shape  or  age.  We  got  some 
light  on  that,  which  ought  to  convince  anybody,  when  under 


I  GO  TO  WAR 


47 


Mayor  Strong's  administration  we  tried  to  deal  intelligently 
with  vagrancy.  One-half  of  the  homeless  apphcants  for  night 
shelter  were  fat;  well-nourished  young  loafers  who  wouldn't 
work.  That  is  not  my  statement,  ])ut  the  report  of  the  doctor 
who  saw  them  stripped,  taking  their  Ijath.  The  bath  and  the 
investigation  presently  decreased  their  numbers,  until  in  a  week 
scarcely  anything  was  left  of  the  problem''  that  had  bothered 
us  so. 

Four  days  I  was  on  the  way  to  Philadelphia,  living  on  apples 
and  an  occasional  meal  earned  by  doing  odd  jobs.  At  night  I 
slept  in  lonely  barns  that  nearly  always  had  a  board  ripped  out 
—  the  tramps'  door.  I  tried  to  avoid  the  gang,  but  I  was  not 
always  successful.  I  remember  still  with  a  shudder  an  instance 
of  that  kind.  I  was  burrowing  in  a  haymow,  thinking  myself 
alone.  In  the  night  a  big  storm  came  up.  The  thunder  shook 
the  old  barn,  and  I  sat  up  wondering  if  it  would  be  blown  awa3\ 
A  fierce  light nmg-flash  filled  it  with  a  ghostly  light,  and  showed 
me  within  arm's  length  a  white  and  scared  face  with  eyes  starting 
from  their  sockets  at  the  sight  of  me.  The  next  moment  all  was 
black  darkness  again.  ]\Iy  heart  stood  still  for  what  seemed  the 
longest  moment  of  my  life.  Then  there  came  out  of  the  dark- 
ness a  quaking  voice  asking,  ^^Is  anj^bod}^  there?"  For  once  I 
was  glad  to  have  a  hve  tramp  about.  I  really  thought  it  was 
a  ghost. 

The  last  few  miles  to  Camden  I  rode  in  a  cattlecar,  arriving 
there  at  night,  much  the  worse  for  the  w^ear  of  it  on  ni}^  linen 
duster.  In  the  freight-yard  I  was  picked  up  by  a  good-hearted 
police  captain  who  took  me  to  his  station,  made  me  tell  him  my 
story,  and  gave  me  a  bed  in  an  unused  cell,  tlie  door  of  which  he 
took  the  precaution  to  lock  on  the  outside.  But  I  did  not  mind. 
Rather  that  a  hundred  times  than  the  pig-sty  in  the  New  York 
stationhouse.  In  the  morning  he  gave  me  breakfast  and  money 
to  get  my  boots  blacked  and  to  pay  my  fare  across  the  Delaware. 


48  THE  MAKING  OF  AN  AMERICAN 


And  so  my  homeless  wanderings  came,  for  the  time  being,  to  an 
end.  For  in  Philadelphia  I  found  in  the  Danish  Consul, 
Ferdinand  Myhlertz,  and  his  dear  wife,  friends  indeed  as  in  need. 
The  City  of  Brotherly  Love  found  heart  and  time  to  welcome 
the  wanderer,  though  at  the  time  it  was  torn  up  by  the  hottest 
kind  of  fight  over  the  question  whether  or  not  to  disfigure  the 
beautiful  square  at  Broad  and  Market  streets  by  putting  the 
new  municipal  building  there. 

When,  after  two  weeks^  rest  with  my  friends,  they  sent  me  on 
my  way  to  an  old  schoolmate  in  Jamestown,  N.  Y.,  clothed  and 
in  my  right  mind,  I  was  none  the  worse  for  my  first  lesson  in 
swimming  against  the  current,  and  quite  sure  that  next  time  I 
should  be  able  to  breast  it.  Hope  springs  eternal  at  twenty-one. 
I  had  many  a  weary  stretch  ahead  before  I  was  to  make  port. 
But  with  youth  and  courage  as  the  equipment,  one  should  win 
ahnost  any  fight. 


CHAPTER  IV 

Working  and  Wandering 

Winter  came  quickly  up  by  the  northern  lakes,  but  it  had  no 
terror  for  me.  For  once  I  had  shelter  and  enough  to  eat.  It 
found  me  felUng  trees  on  Swede  Hill,  where  a  considerable  settle- 
ment of  Scandinavians  was  growing  up.  I  had  tried  my  hand 
at  making  cradles  in  a  furniture-shop,  but  at  two  dollars  and 
forty  cents  per  dozen  there  was  not  much  profit  in  it.  So  I  took 
to  the  woods  and  learned  to  swing  an  axe  in  the  American 
fashion  that  had  charmed  me  so  at  Brady ^s  Bend.  I  liked  it 
much  better,  anyway,  than  being  in  the  house  wdnter  and  sum- 
mer. It  is  well  that  we  are  fashioned  that  way,  some  for  indoors 
and  some  for  outdo-^-rs,  for  so  the  work  of  the  world  is  all  done ; 
but  it  had  always  seemed  to  me  that  the  indoor  folk  take  too  big 
a  share  of  credit  to  themselves,  as  though  there  were  special 
virtue  in  that,  though  I  think  that  the  reverse  is  the  case.  At 
least  it  seems  more  natural  to  want  to  be  out  in  the  open  where 
the  sun  shines  and  the  winds  blow.  W^hen  I  was  not  chopping 
wood  I  was  helping  with  the  ice  harvest  on  the  lake  or  repairing 
the  steamer  that  ran  in  summer  between  JamestowTi  and  May- 
viWe.  My  home  was  in  Dexterville,  a  mile  or  so  out  of  town,  where 
there  lived  a  Danish  family,  the  Romers,  at  whose  home  I  was 
made  welcome.  The  friendship  which  grew  up  between  us  has 
endured  through  life  and  been  to  me  a  treasure.  Gentler  and 
E  49 


50 


THE  MAKING  OF  AN  AMERICAN 


truer  hearts  than  those  of  Nicholas  and  John  Romer  there  are 
not  many. 

I  shared  my  room  with  another  countryman,  Anthony  Ronne, 
a  young  axe-maker,  who,  hke  myself,  was  in  hard  luck.  The 
axe-factory  had  burned  down,  and,  with  no  work  in  sight,  the 
outlook  for  him  was  not  exactly  bright.  He  had  not  my  way  of 
laughing  it  off,  but  was  rather  disposed  to  see  the  serious  side  of 
it.  Probably  that  was  the  reason  we  took  to  each  other;  the 
balance  was  restored  so.  Maybe  he  sobered  me  down  somewhat. 
If  any  one  assumes  that  in  my  role  of  unhappy  lover  I  went  about 
glooming  and  glowering  on  mankind,  he  makes  a  big  mistake. 
Besides,  I  had  not  the  least  notion  of  accepting  that  role  as  per- 
manent. I  was  out  to  twist  the  wheel  of  fortune  my  way  when 
I  could  get  my  hands  upon  it.  I  never  doubted  that  I  should  do 
that  sooner  or  later,  if  only  I  kept  doing  things.  That  Ehz- 
abeth  should  ever  marry  anybody  but  me  was  preposterously 
impossible,  no  matter  what  she  or  anybody  said. 

Was  this  madness?  They  half  thought  so  at  home  when  they 
caught  a  glimpse  of  it  in  my  letters.  Not  at  all.  It  was  con- 
viction —  the  conviction  that  shapes  events  and  the  world  to 
its  ends.  I  know  what  I  am  talking  about.  If  any  one  doubts  it, 
and  thinks  his  a  worse  case  than  mine,  let  him  try  my  plan.  If  he 
cannot  muster  up  courage  to  do  it,  it  is  the  best  proof  in  the  world 
that  she  was  right  in  refusing  him. 

To  return  to  my  chum;  he,  on  his  part,  rose  to  the  height 
even  of  'Agoing  out,^^  but  not  with  me.  There  was  a  physical 
obstacle  to  that.  We  had  but  one  coat  between  us,  a  turned 
black  kersey,  worn  very  smooth  and  shiny  also  on  the  wrong 
side,  which  I  had  bought  of  a  second-hand  dealer  in  Philadelphia 
for  a  dollar.  It  was  our  full-dress,  and  we  took  turns  arraying 
ourselves  in  it  for  the  Dexterville  weekly  parties.  These  gather- 
ings intere^irLed  me  chiefly  as  outbreaks  of  the  peculiar  American 
humor  that  was  very  taking  to  me,  in  and  out  of  the  newspapers. 


WORKING  AND  WANDERING 


51 


Dancing  being  tabooed  a.s  immoral  and  contaminating,  the 
young  people  had  recourse  to  particularly  energetic  kissing 
games,  which  more  than  made  up  for  their  deprivation  on  the 
other  score.  It  was  all  very  harmless  and  very  funny,  and  the 
winter  wore  away  pleasantly  enough  in  spite  of  hard  luck  and 
hard  work  when  there  was  any. 

With  the  early  thaw  came  change,  ^ly  friends  moved  away 
to  Buffalo,  and  I  was  left  for  two  months  the  sole  occupant  of  the 
Romer  homestead.  My  last  job  gave  out  about  that  time,  and 
a  wheelbarrow  express  which  I  established  between  Dexterville 
and  the  steamboat  landing  on  the  lake  refused  to  prosper.  The 
idea  was  good  enough,  but  I  was  ahead  of  my  time :  travel  on 
the  lake  had  not  yet  begun.  With  my  field  thus  narrowed  down, 
I  fell  back  on  my  gun  and  some  old  rat-traps  I  found  in  the 
woodshed.  I  became  a  hunter  and  trapper.  Right  below  me 
was  the  glen  through  which  the  creek  ran  on  its  way  to  the  saw- 
mills and  furniture  shops  of  Jamestown.  It  was  full  of  musk- 
rats  that  burrowed  in  its  banks  between  the  roots  of  dead  hem- 
locks and  pines.  There  I  set  my  traps  and  baited  them  with 
carrots  and  turnips.  The  manner  of  it  was  simple  enough.  I 
set  the  trap  on  the  bottom  of  the  creek  and  hung  the  bait  on  a 
stick  projecting  horA  the  bank  over  it,  so  that  to  get  at  it  the  rat 
had  to  step  on  the  trap.  I  caught  lots  of  them.  Their  skins 
brought  twenty  cents  apiece  in  the  town,  so  that  I  was  really 
quite  independent.  I  made  often  as  much  as  a  dollar  overnight 
with  my  traps,  and  then  had  the  whole  day  to  myself  in  the  hills, 
where  I  waylaid  many  a  fat  rabbit  or  squirrel  and  an  occasional 
oird. 

The  one  thing  that  marred  my  enjoyment  of  this  life  of  free- 
dom was  my  vain  struggle  to  master  the  art  of  cookery  in  its 
elements.  To  properly  get  the  hang  of  that,  and  of  housekeeping 
in  general,  two  heads  are  needed,  as  I  have  found  out  since  —  one 
of  them  with  curls  and  long  eyelashes.    Then  it  is  fine  fun ;  but 


52 


THE  MAKING  OF  AN  AMERICAN 


it  is  not  good  for  man  to  tackle  that  job  alone.  Goodness  knows 
I  tried  hard  enough.  I  remember  the  first  omelet  I  made.  I  was 
bound  to  get  it  good.  So  I  made  a  muster-roll  of  all  the  good 
things  Mrs.  Romer  had  left  in  the  house,  and  put  them  all  in. 
Eggs  and  strawberry  jam  and  raisins  and  apple-sauce,  and  some 
shced  bacon  —  the  way  I  had  seen  mother  do  with  ^'egg  pan- 
cakes.But  though  I  seasoned  it  liberally  with  baking-powder 
to  make  it  rise,  it  did  not  rise.  It  was  dreadfully  heavy  and 
discouraging,  and  not  even  the  strawberry  jam  had  power  to 
redeem  it.  To  tell  the  truth,  it  was  not  a  good  omelet.  It  was 
hardly  fit  to  eat.  The  jam  came  out  to  better  advantage  in  the 
sago  I  boiled,  but  there  was  too  much  of  it.  It  was  only  a  fruit- 
jar  full,  but  I  never  saw  anything  swell  so.  It  boiled  out  of  the 
pot  and  into  another  and  another,  while  I  kept  pouring  on  water 
until  nearly  every  jar  in  the  house  was  full  of  sago  that  stood 
around  until  moss  grew  on  it^with  age.  There  is  much  con- 
trariness in  cooking.  When  I  tapped  my  maples  with  the  rest  — 
there  were  two  big  trees  in  front  of  the  house  —  and  tried  to 
make  sugar,  I  was  prepared  to  see  the  sap  boil  away ;  but  when 
I  had  labored  a  whole  day  and  burned  half  a  cord  of  wood,  and 
had  for  my  trouble  half  a  teacupful  of  sugar,  which  made  me  sick 
into  the  bargain,  I  concluded  that  that  game  was  not  worth  the 
candle,  and  gave  up  my  plans  of  becoming  a  sugar-planter  on  a 
larger  scale. 

It  was  at  this  time  that  I  made  my  first  appearance  on  the 
lecture  platform.  There  was  a  Scandinavian  society  in  James- 
town, composed  chiefly  of  workingmen  whose  fight  with  life  had 
left  them  little  enough  time  for  schooling.  They  were  anxious 
to  learn,  however,  and  as  I  was  set  on  teaching  where  I  saw  the 
chance,  the  thing  came  of  itself.  I  had  been  mightily  interested 
in  the  Frenchman  Figuier's  account  of  the  formation  and  develop- 
ment of  the  earth,  and  took  that  for  my  topic.  Twice  a  week, 
when  I  had  set  my  traps  in  the  glen,  I  went  to  town  and  talked 


WORKING  AXD  WAXDERIXG 


53 


astronom}^  and  geolog}"  to  interested  audiences  that  gazed  terror 
stricken  at  the  loathsome  saurians  and  the  damnable  pterodactj'l 
which  I  sketched  on  the  blackboard.  Well  they  might.  I 
spared  them  no  gruesome  detail,  and  I  never  could  draw,  anyhow. 
However,  I  rescued  them  from  those  beasts  in  season,  and  to- 
gether we  hauled  the  earth  through  age-long  showers  of  molten 
metal  into  the  sunlight  of  our  day.  I  sometimes  carried  home 
as  much  as  two  or  three  dollars,  after  paying  for  gas  and  hall, 
with  the  tickets  ten  cents  apiece,  and  I  saw  wealth  and  fame 
ahead  of  me,  when  sudden  wreck  came  to  my  hopes  and  my 
career  as  a  lecturer. 

It  was  all  because,  ha^dng  got  the  earth  properly  constructed 
and  set  up,  as  it  were,  I  undertook  to  explain  about  latitude  and 
:   longitude.    Figures  came  in  there,  and  I  was  never  strong  at 
I  mathematics.    My  education  in  that  branch  had  run  into  a  snag 
!  about  the  middle  of  the  little  multiplication  table.    A  boy  from 
j  the  '^plebs''  school  challenged  me  to  fight,  as  I  was  making  my 
j  way  to  recitation,  trying  to  learn  the  table  by  heart.    I  broke 
off  in  the  middle  of  the  sixes  to  wallop  him,  and  never  got  any 
I  farther.    The  class  went  on  that  day  without  me,  and  I  never 
I  overtook  it.    I  made  but  httle  effort.    In  the  Latin  School, 
i  which  rather  prided  itself  upon  being  free  from  the  commercial 
[  taint,  mathematics  was  held  to  be  in  the  nature  of  an  intrusion, 
)  and  it  was  a  sort  of  good  mark  for  a  boy  that  he  did  not  take  to  it, 
if  at  the  same  time  he  showed  aptitude  for  language.    So  I  was 
left  to  deplore  with  ]\Iarjorie  Fleming  to  the  end  of  my  days 
the  inherent  viciousness  of  sevens  and  eights,  as  ^^more  than 
human  nature  can  endure."    It  is  one  of  the  ironies  of  life  that 
I  should  have  had  to  take  up  work  into  which  the  study  of 
statistics  enters  largely.    But  the  powers  that  set  me  the  task 
provided  a  fitter  back  than  mine  for  that  burden.    As  I  explained 
i  years  ago  in  the  preface  to  ^'How  the  Other  Half  Lives,"  the 
patient  friendship  of  Dr.  Roger  S.  Tracy,  the  learned  statistician 


54 


THE  ]\IAKING  OF  AX  AAIERICAN 


of  the  Health  Department,  has  smoothed  the  rebelUous  kinks 
out  of  death-rates  and  population  statistics,  as  of  so  many  other 
knotty  problems  which  we  have  worked  out  together. 

But  I  am  getting  out  of  my  longitude,  as  I  did  then.  Wlien 
I  had  groped  about  long  enough  trying  to  make  my  audience 
understand  what  I  only  half  understood  myself,  an  old  sea- 
captain  arose  in  his  place  and  said  that  an}^  man  who  would  make 
a  mess  of  so  simple  a  tiling  as  latitude  and  longitude  evidentl}^ 
knew  nothing  at  all.  It  happened  to  be  the  one  thing  he  knew 
about.  Popular  favor  is  a  fickle  thing.  The  audience  that  had 
but  now  been  applauding  my  efforts  to  organize  the  earth  took 
his  word  for  it  without  waiting  for  an  explanation  and  went  out 
in  a  body,  scouting  even  the  ichthj^osaurus  as  a  prehistoric  fake. 

I  made  a  valiant  effort  to  stem  the  tide,  but  came  to  worse 
grief  than  before.  My  only  listener  was  a  Swedish  blacksmith 
who  had  attended  the  creation  and  development  of  the  earth  from 
the  beginning  with  unshaken  faith,  though  he  was  a  member  of 
the  Lutheran  church,  with  the  pastor  and  deacons  of  which  I 
had  waged  a  bitter  newspaper  war  over  the  ''sin'^  of  dancing. 
But  when  I  said,  on  the  authority  of  Figuier,  that  an  English 
man-of-war  had  once  during  an  earthquake  been  thrown  into 
the  city  of  Callao  and  through  the  roof  of  a  church,  between  the 
walls  of  which  it  remained  standing  upright  on  its  keel,  he  got  up 
and  went  too.  He  circulated  the  story  in  town  with  various 
embellishments.  The  deacons  aforesaid  seized  upon  it  as  wel- 
come ammunition,  construing  it  into  an  insult  to  the  church,  and 
there  was  an  end  to  my  lecturing. 

The  warm  spring  weather,  together  with  these  disappoint- 
ments, bred  in  me  the  desire  to  roam.  I  packed  away  my  traps 
and  started  for  Buffalo  with  my  grip,  walking  along  the  lake.  It 
set  in  with  a  drizzling  rain,  and  I  was  soon  wet  to  the  skin.  Where 
the  Chautauqua  summer  school  grounds  are  now  I  surprised  a 
flock  of  wild  ducks  near  the  shore,  and  was  lucky  enough  to 


WORKING  AND  WANDERING 


55 


wound  one  with  my  revolver.  But  the  wind  carried  it  out  of 
my  reach,  and  I  trudged  on  supperless,  through  Mayville,  where 
the  Ughts  w^ere  beginning  to  shine  in  the  windows.  Not  one  of 
them  was  for  me.  All  my  money  had  gone  to  pay  back  debts  to 
my  Dexterville  landlady.  The  Danes  had  a  good  name  in 
Jamestown,  and  we  were  all  very  jealous  of  it.  We  would  have 
starved,  every  one  of  us,  rather  than  leave  unpaid  debts  behind. 
As  Mrs.  Ben  Wah  many  years  after  put  it  to  me,  ^^it  is  no  dis- 
grace to  be  poor,  hxit  it  is  sometimes  very  inconvenient."  I 
found  it  so  when,  worn  out  with  walking,  I  crawled  into  an 
abandoned  barn  halfwa}^  to  West  field  and  dug  down  in  the  hay, 
wet  through  and  hungry  as  a  bear.  It  stormed  and  rained  all 
night,  and  a  rat  or  a  squirrel  fell  from  the  roof  on  my  face.  It 
felt  like  a  big  sprawling  hand,  and  woke  me  up  in  a  great  fright. 

The  sun  was  shining  upon  a  peaceful  Sabbath  when  I  crawled 
out  of  my  hole  and  saw  to  my  dismay  that  I  had  been  sleeping 
in  a  pile  of  old  hay  seed  that  had  worked  through  and  through 
m}^  wet  clothes  until  I  was  a  sight.  An  hour's  patient  plucking 
and  a  bath  in  a  near-by  pond  restored  me  to  something  like 
human  shape,  and  I  held  my  entry  into  Westfield.  The  people 
were  going  to  church  in  their  holiday  clothes,  and  eyed  the  un- 
couth stranger  askance.  I  travelled  the  whole  length  of  the  town 
thinking  what  to  do  iiext.  My  stomach  decided  for  me.  There 
was  a  house  standing  in  a  pretty  garden  with  two  little  cast  iron 
negro  boys  for  hitching-posts  at  the  steps.  I  rang  the  bell,  and 
to  an  old  lad}^  who  opened  the  door  I  offered  to  chop  wood,  fetch 
water,  or  do  anything  there  was  to  do  in  exchange  for  breakfast. 
She  went  in  and  brought  out  her  husband,  who  looked  me  over 
and  said  that  if  I  was  willing  to  do  his  chores  I  need  go  no  farther. 
I  was  tired  and  famished,  and  the  place  was  so  restful  that  I  said 
yes  at  once.  In  ten  minutes  I  was  eating  my  breakfast  in  the 
kitchen,  duly  installed  as  Dr.  Spencer's  hired  man. 

I  think  of  the  month  I  spent  in  the  doctor's  house  with  mingled 


56 


THE  MAKING  OF  AN  AMERICAN 


feelings  of  exasperation  and  amusement.  If  I  had  not  learned 
to  milk  a  cow  there,  probably  Octavia  El}^  would  never  have 
come  into  my  life,  horrid  nightmare  that  she  was.  Octavia  Ely 
was  a  Jersey  cow  with  a  brass  tag  in  her  ear,  whose  attacks  upon 
the  domestic  peace  of  my  house  in  after  3^cars  even  now  fill  me 
Tvith  rage.  In  the  twelve  months  of  her  sojourn  with  us  she  had 
fifteen  different  kinds  of  disease,  every  one  of  which  advertised 
itself  by  the  stopping  of  her  milk.  When  she  had  none,  she 
never  once  gave  down  the  milk  without  grudging  it.  With  three 
of  us  to  hold  her  legs  and  tail  lest  she  step  in  the  pail  or  switch 
our  ears,  she  would  reach  back  and  eat  the  vest  off  my  back  where 
I  sat  milking  her.  But  she  does  not  belong  in  this  story,  thank 
goodness !  If  she  had  never  belonged  to  me  or  mine,  I  should 
be  a  better  man  to-day;  she  provoked  me  so.  However,  I  can- 
not reasonably  lay  the  blame  for  her  on  the  doctor.  His  cow 
was  friendly  enough.  It  was  Sport,  the  old  dog,  that  made  the 
heaviest  and  at  the  same  time  a  most  ludicrous  item  in  my  duties 
as  hired  man.  Long  past  the  age  of  sport  of  any  kind,  he  spent 
his  decadent  years  in  a  state  of  abject  fear  of  thunder  and  Hght- 
ning.  If  only  a  cloud  darkened  the  sun.  Sport  kept  up  a  ceaseless 
pilgrimage  between  his  corner  and  the  kitchen  door  to  observe 
the  sky,  sighing  most  grievously  at  the  outlook.  At  the  first 
distant  rumble  —  this  was  in  the  month  of  May,  when  it  thun- 
dered almost  every  day  —  he  became  perfectly  rigid  with  terror. 
It  was  my  duty  then  to  carry  him  dow  into  the  cellar  and 
shut  him  in  the  wood-box,  where  he  was  out  of  the  wa}'  of  it  all. 
Poor  Sport  laid  his  head  against  my  shoulder  and  wept  great 
tears  that  wrung  peals  of  laughter  from  me  and  from  the  boys 
who  always  hung  around  to  see  the  show. 

One  of  these  was  just  beginning  the  struggle  with  his  Homer, 
which  I  knew  by  heart  almost,  and  it  may  have  been  the  discovery 
that  I  was  able  to  steer  him  through  it  between  chores,  as  well 
as  to  teach  him  some  tricks  of  fencing,  that  helped  make  the 


WORKING  AXD  WAXDERIXG 


57 


doctor  anxious  that  I  should  promise  to  stay  with  him  alwa^'s. 
He  would  make  me  rich,  he  said.  But  other  ambitions  than  to 
milk  cows  and  plant  garden  truck  were  stirring  in  me.  Ta  be 
rich  was  never  among  them.  I  had  begun  to  write  essays  for 
the  magazines,  choosing  for  my  topic,  for  want  of  any  other, 
the  maltreatment  of  Denmark  b}^  Prussia,  which  rankled  fresh 
in  my  memor}^  and  the  duty  of  all  Scandinavians  to  rise  up 
and  avenge  it.  The  Scandinavians  would  not  listen  when  I 
wrote  in  Danish,  and  my  English  outpourings  never  reached  the 
pubhshers.  I  discovered  that  I  lacked  words  —  they  didn't 
pour;  at  which,  in  general  discontentment  with  myself  and  all 
things,  I  pulled  up  stakes  and  went  to  Buffalo.  Onh^,  this  time 
I  rode  in  a  railway  train,  with  money  in  my  pocket. 

For  all  that,  Buffalo  received  me  with  no  more  circumstance 
than  it  had  done  when  I  came  there  penniless,  on  the  way  to  the 
war,  the  year  before.  I  piled  boards  in  a  lumber-yard  until  I 
picked  a  quarrel  with  a  tyrant  foreman  on  behalf  of  a  lot  of  green 
Germans  whom  he  maltreated  most  shamefully.  Then  I  was 
put  out.  A  cabinet-maker  in  the  Beehive,''  a  factory  building 
out  in  Niagara  Street,  hired  me  next  to  make  bedsteads,  and  took 
me  to  board  with  him.  In  the  top  story  of  the  factory  we  fitted 
up  a  bedroom  that  was  just  large  enough  for  one  sitting  and  two 
standing,  so  long  as  the  door  was  not  opened;  then  one  of  the 
two  had  to  get  out.  It  mattered  little,  for  the  only  visitor  I  had 
was  a  half-elderly  countrj^man  of  mine  whom  they  had  worked 
so  hard  in  his  childhood  that  he  had  never  had  a  chance  to  go  to 
school.  We  two  labored  together  by  my  little  lamp,  and  it  was 
great  fun  to  see  him  who  had  never  known  how  to  read  and  write 
his  own  Danish  make  long  strides  in  the  strange  tongue  he  spoke 
so  singularly  well.  W^hen  we  were  both  tired  out,  we  would 
climb  up  on  the  roof  and  he  there  and  look  out  over  the  lake  and 
the  city  where  the  m.yriad  lights  were  shining,  and  talk  of  the  old 
home  and  old  times. 


58 


THE  MAKING  OF  AN  AMERICAN 


Sometimes  the  new  would  crowd  them  out  in  spite  of  all.  I 
remember  that  Fourth  of  July  when  the  salute  from  Fort  Porter 
woke  me  up  at  sunrise  and  fired  me  with  sudden  patriotic  ardor. 
I  jumped  out  of  bed  and  grabbed  my  revolver:  There  was 
a  pile  of  packing-boxes  in  the  yard  below,  and,  knowing  that 
there  was  no  one  around  whom  I  could  hurt,  I  made  it  my 
target  and  fired  away  all  my  ammunition  at  it.  It  made  a  fine 
racket,  and  I  was  happy.  A  couple  of  days  later,  when  I  was 
down  in  the  yard,  it  occurred  to  me  to  look  at  the  boxes  to  ascer- 
tain what  kind  of  a  score  I  had  made.  A  very  good  one.  All 
the  bullets  had  hit.  The  boxes  looked  like  so  many  sieves.  In- 
cidentally I  found  out  that  they  were  not  empty,  as  I  had  sup- 
posed, but  filled  with  glass  fruit-jars. 

I  had  eventually  to  give  that  job  up  also,  because  my  boss  was 
"bad  pay.'^  He  was  pretty  much  all  bad,  I  guess.  I  do  think 
his  house  was  the  most  disorderly  one  I  have  ever  come  across. 
Seven  ill-favored  children  clamored  about  the  table,  fighting  with 
their  even  more  ill-fa  v^ored  mother.  She  used  to  single  out  the 
one  she  wished  to  address  by  slamming  a  handful  of  string-beans 
or  whatever  greens  might  be  at  hand,  across  the  tdhh  at  him. 
The  youngster  would  fire  it  back,  and  so  they  were  en  rapport 
with  each  other.  The  father  was  seldom  sober  at  meals.  When 
he  "felt  funny, he  would  stealthily  pour  a  glass  of  water  down 
the  nearest  child's  back  and  then  sit  and  chuckle  over  the  havoc 
he  had  wrought.  There  followed  a  long  and  woful  wail  and  an 
instant  explosion  from  the  mother  in  this  wise.  1  can  hear  her 
now.    1+  was  always  the  same :  — 

"Gott-himmel-donnerwetter-noch-emal-ich-will-de-mal-hole- 
du-spitzbub-eselskerl  -  wart' -nur-ich -schlag- de - noch-todt- pot z- 
sacrement!" 

Whereupon,  from  sheer  exhaustion  all  round,  there  was  peace 
for  at  least  five  minutes. 

Which  reminds  me  of  meeting  Adler,  rny  chum  from  Brady's 


WORKIXG  AND  WANDERING 


59 


Bend,  in  Buffalo.  He  had  come  up  to  get  a  $1500  place,  as  he 
informed  me.  That  would  about  satisfy  him.  That  such  jobs 
were  waiting  by  the  score  for  an  educated  German  in  this  bar- 
barous land  he  never  doubted  for  a  moment.  In  the  end  he  went 
to  work  in  a  rolhng-mill  at  a  dollar  a  day.  Adler  was  ever  a 
stickler  for  etiquette.  In  Brady's  Bend  we  had  very  little  of  it. 
At  meal  time  a  flock  of  chickens  used  to  come  into  the  summer 
kitchen  where  we  ate,  and  forage  around,  to  Adler's  great 
disgust.  One  day  they  deliberately^  flew  up  on  the  table,  and 
fell  to  fighting  with  the  boarders  for  the  food.  A  big  Shanghai 
rooster  trod  in  the  butter  and  tracked  it  over  the  table.  At  the 
sight  Adler's  rage  knew  no  bounds.  Seizing  a  half-loaf  of  bread, 
he  aimed  it  at  the  rooster  and  felled  him  in  his  tracks.  The  flock 
of  fowl  flew  squawking  out  of  the  door.  The  women  screamed, 
and  the  men  howled  with  laughter.  Adler  flourished  another 
loaf  and  vowed  vengeance  upon  bird  or  beast  that  did  not  let  the 
butter  alone. 

I  have  been  often  enough  out  of  patience  with  the  ways  of  the 
labor  men  which  seem  to  me  to  be  the  greatest  hindrance  to  the 
success  of  their  cause ;  but  I  am  not  in  danger  of  forgetting  the 
other  side  which  makes  that  cause  —  if  for  no  other  reason, 
because  of  an  experience  I  had  in  Buffalo  that  yes^r.  In  a  planing- 
mill  in  which  I  had.found  employment  I  contracted  with  the  boss 
to  plane  doors,  sandpaper  them,  and  plug  knot-holes  at  fifteen 
cents  a  door.  It  was  his  own  offer,  and  I  did  the  work  well, 
better  than  it  had  been  done  before,  so  he  said  himself.  But 
when  he  found  at  the  end  of  the  week  that  I  had  made  $15  where 
my  slow-coach  predecessor  had  made  only  ten,  he  cut  the  price 
do^vn  to  twelve  cents.  I  objected,  but  in  the  end  swallowed 
my  anger  and,  by  putting  on  extra  steam  and  working  overtime, 
made  $16  the  next  week.  The  boss  examined  the  work  very 
carefully^  said  it  was  good,  paid  my  wages,  and  cut  down  the 
price  to  ten  cents.    He  did  not  want  his  men  to  make  over  $10  a 


60 


THE  MAKING  OF  AN  AMERICAN 


week,  he  said ;  it  was  not  good  for  them.  I  quit  then,  after 
giving  him  my  opinion  of  him  and  of  the  chances  of  his  shop.  I 
do  not  know  where  he  may  be  now,  but  wherever  he  is,  I  will 
warrant  that  my  prediction  came  true.  There  is  in  Danish  an 
old  proverb,  '^Falsk  slaar  sin  egen  Herre  paa  Hals,''  which  is  to 
say  that  chickens  come  home  to  roost,  and  that  right  in  the  end 
does  prevail  over  might.  The  Lord  Chief  Justice  over  all  is  not 
to  be  tricked.  If  the  labor  men  will  only  remember  that,  and 
devote,  let  us  say,  as  much  time  to  their  duties  as  to  fighting  for 
their  rights,  they  will  get  them  sooner.  Which  is  not  saying  that 
there  is  not  a  time  to  strike.  Witness  my  experience  with  the 
planing-mill  man. 

I  struck  not  only  against  him,  but  against  the  whole  city  of 
Buffalo.  I  shook  the  dust  of  it  from  my  feet  and  went  out  to 
work  with  a  gang  on  a  new  railroad  then  being  built  through 
Cattaraugus  County  —  the  Buffalo  and  Washington,  I  think. 
Near  a  village  called  Coonville  our  job  was  cut  out  for  us.  We 
were  twenty  in  ihe  gang,  and  we  were  to  build  the  line  across  an 
old  dry  river-bed  at  that  point.  In  the  middle  of  the  river  there 
had  once  been  a  forest-clad  island.  This  we  attacked  with  pick- 
axe and  spade  and  carried  it  away  piecemeal  in  our  wheel- 
barrows. It  fell  in  the  hottest  weather  of  the  year.  Down  in 
^  the  hollow  where  no  wind  blew  it  was  utterly  unbearable.  I  had 
never  done  such  work  before,  and  was  not  built  for  it.  I  did 
my  best  to  keep  up  with  the  gang,  but  my  chest  heaved  and  my 
heart  beat  as  though  it  would  burst.  There  were  nineteen 
Irishmen  in  the  gang  —  big,  rough  fellows  who  had  picked  me 
out,  as  the  only  ^'Dutchman,"  as  the  butt  for  their  coarse  jokes ; 
but  when  they  saw  that  the  work  was  plainly  too  much  for  me, 
the  other  side  of  this 'curiouslj^  contradictory,  mischief-loving, 
and  big-hearted  people  came  out.  They  invented  a  thousand 
excuses  to  get  me  out  of  the  line.  Water  was  certainly  not  their 
daily  diet,  bjit  they  fell  victims,  one  and  all,  to  the  most  ravening 


WORKING  AND  WANDERING 


61 


thirst,  which  required  the  despatching  of  me  every  hour  to  tlie 
spring  a  quarter  of  a  mile  away  to  fill  the  pail.  If  they  could  not 
empty  it  quickly  enough,  they  managed  to  upset  it,  and,  to  cover 
up  the  fraud,  cursed  each  other  roundly  for  their  clumsiness. 
Between  whiles  they  worried  me  as  ever  with  their  horseplay ; 
but  I  had  seen  the  real  man  behind  it,  and  they  might  have  called 
me  Bismarck,  had  they  chosen,  without  offence. 

The  heat,  the  work,  and  the  slave-driver  of  a  foreman  were  too 
much  for  them  even,  and  before  the  end  of  a  week  the  gang  was 
broken  and  scattered  wide.  I  was  on  the  road  again  looking  for 
work  on  a  farm.  It  was  not  to  be  had.  Perhaps  I  did  not  try 
very  hard.  Sunday  morning  found  me  spending  my  last  quarter 
for  breakfast  in  an  inn  at  Lime  Lake.  When  I  had  eaten,  I  went 
out  in  the  fields  and  sat  with  ni}^  back  against  a  tree,  and  listened 
to  the  church-bells  that  were  ringing  also,  I  knew,  in  my  home 
four  thousand  miles  away.  I  saw  the  venerable  Domkirke,  my 
father's  gray  head  in  his  pew,  and  Her,  young  and  innocent,  in 
the  women's  seats  across  the  aisle.  I  heard  the  old  pastor's 
voice  in  the  solemn  calm,  and  my  tears  fell  upon  her  picture  that 
had  called  up  the  vision.  It  was  as  if  a  voice  spoke  to  me  and 
said  to  get  up  and  be  a  man ;  that  if  I  wanted  to  win  Elizabeth, 
to  work  for  her  was  the  way,  and  not  idling  my  days  away  on  the 
road.  And  I  got  right  up,  and,  setting  my  face  toward  Buffalo, 
went  by  the  shortest  cut  back  to  my  work. 

I  walked  day  and  night,  pursued  in  the  dark  by  a  hundred 
skulking  curs  that  lurked  behind  trees  until  I  came  abreast  of 
them  and  then  sallied  out  to  challenge  my  progress.  I  stoned 
them  and  went  on.  Monday's  setting  sun  saw  me  outside 
Buffalo,  tired,  but  with  a  new  purpose.  I  had  walked  fifty  miles 
without  stopping  or  eating.  I  slept  under  a  shed  that  night,  and 
the  very  next  day  found  work  at  good  wages  on  some  steamers 
the  Erie  Railroad  was  then  building  for  the  Lake  Superior  trade. 
With  intervals  of  other  employment  when  for  any  reason  work 

i 


62 


THE  MAKING  OF  AN  AMERICAN 


in  the  ship-yard  was  slack,  I  kept  that  up  all  winter,  and  became 
quite  opulent,  even  to  the  extent  of  buying  a  new  suit  of  clothes, 
the  first  I  had  had  since  I  landed.  I  paid  off  all  my  debts,  and 
quarrelled  with  all  my  friends  about  religion.  I  never  had  any 
patience  with  a  person  who  says  "there  is  no  God.'^  The  man 
is  a  fool,  and  therefore  cannot  be  reasoned  with.  But  in  those 
days  I  was  set  on  converting  him,  as  my  viking  forefathers  did 
when  from  heathen  they  became  Christians  —  by  fire  and  sword 
if  need  be.  I  smote  the  infidels  about  me  hip  and  thigh,  but 
there  were  a  good  many  of  them,  and  they  kept  springing  up,  to 
my  great  amazement.  Probably  the  constant  warfare  imparted 
a  tinge  of  fierceness  to  that  whole  period  of  my  life,  for  I  remember 
that  one  of  my  employers,  a  Roman  Catholic  builder,  discharged 
me  for  disagreeing  with  him  about  the  saints,  telling  me  that  I 
was  "too  blamed  independent,  anyhow.'^  I  suspect  I  must  have 
been  a  rather  unlovely  customer,  take  it  all  together.  Still, 
every  once  in  a  while  it  boils  up  in  me  yet  against  the  discretion 
that  has  come  with  the  years,  and  I  want  to  slam  in  after  the  old 
fashion.  Seems  to  me  we  are  in  danger  of  growing  stale  with  all 
our  soft  speeches  nowadays. 

Things  enough  happened  to  take  down  my  seK-esteem  a  good 
many  pegs.  It  was  about  this  time  I  made  up  my  mind  to  go 
into  the  newspaper  business.  It  seemed  to  me  that  a  reporter's 
was  the  highest  and  noblest  of  all  callings;  no  one  could  sift 
wrong  from  right  as  he,  and  punish  the  wrong.  In  that  I  was 
right.  I  have  not  changed  my  opinion  on  that  point  one  whit, 
and  I  am  sure  I  never  shall.  The  power  of  fact  is  the  mightiest 
lever  of  this  or  of  any  day.  The  reporter  has  his  hand  upon  it, 
and  it  is  his  grievous  fault  if  he  does  not  use  it  well.  I  thought 
I  would  make  a  good  reporter.  My  father  had  edited  our  local 
newspaper,  and  such  little  help  as  I  had  been  of  to  him  had  given 
me  a  taste  for  the  business.  Being  of  that  mind,  Twent  to  the 
Courier  office  one  morning  and  asked  for  the  editor.    He  was 


WORKING  AND  WANDERING 


63 


not  in.  Apparently  nobody  was.  I  wandered  through  room 
after  room,  all  empty,  till  at  last  I  came  to  one  in  which  sat  a 
man  with  a  paste-pot  and  a  pair  of  long  shears.  This  must  be 
the  editor;  he  had  the  implements  of  his  trade.  I  told  him  my 
errand  while  he  cUpped  away. 

''What  is  it  you  want  he  asked,  when  I  had  ceased  speaking 
and  waited  for  an  answer. 

''Work,"  I  said. 

"  Work  ! "  said  he,  waving  me  haughtih^  away  with  the  shears ; 
"we  don't  work  here.    This  is  a  newspaper  office." 

I  went,  abashed.  I  tried  the  Express  next.  This  time  I  had 
the  editor  pointed  out  to  me.  He  was  just  coming  through  the 
business  office.  At  the  door  I  stopped  him  and  preferred  my 
request.  He  looked  me  over,  a  lad  fresh  from  the  shipyard,  with 
horny  hands  and  a  rough  coat,  and  asked  :  — 

"What  are  you?" 

"A  carpenter,"  I  said. 

The  man  turned  upon  his  heel  witli  a  loud,  rasping  laugh  and 
shut  the  door  in  my  face.  For  a  moment  I  stood  there  stunned. 
His  ascending  steps  on  the  stairs  brought  back  my  senses.  I 
ran  to  the  door,  and  flung  it  open.  "You  laugh!"  I  shouted, 
shaking  my  fist  at  him,  standing  halfway  up  the  stairs,  "you 
laugh  now,  but  w^'it  — "  And  then  I  got  the  grip  of  m}"  temper 
and  slammed  the  door  in  my  turn.  All  the  same,  in  that  hour 
it  was  settled  that  I  was  to  be  a  reporter.  I  knew  it  as  I  went 
out  into  the  street. 


CHAPTER  V 


I  Go  INTO  Business,  Headlong 

Somewhat  suddenly  and  quite  unexpectedly,  a  business 
career  opened  for  me  that  winter.  Once  I  had  tried  to  crowd 
into  it  uninvited,  but  the  result  was  not  good.  It  was  when 
I  had  observed  that,  for  the  want  of  the  window  reflectors  which 
were  much  in  use  in  the  old  country,  American  ladies  were  at  a 
disadvantage  in  their  homes  in  not  being  able  to  make  out'  un- 
desirable company  at  a  distance,  themselves  unseen,  and  con- 
veniently forgetting  thai  they  were  in.^'  This  civilizing  agency 
I  set  about  supplying  forthwith.  I  made  a  model  and  took  it 
to  a  Yankee  business  man,  to  whom  I  explained  its  use.  He 
listened  attentively,  took  the  model,  and  said  he  had  a  good 
mind  to  have  me  locked  up  for  infringing  the  patent  laws  of 
other  lands ;  but  because  I  had  sinned  from  ignorance  he  would 
refrain.  His  manner  was  so  impressive  that  he  really  made 
me  uneasy  lest  I  had  broken  some  kind  of  a  law  I  knew  not  of. 
From  the  fact  that  not  long  after  window  reflectors  began  to 
make  their  appearance  in  Buffalo,  I  infer  that,  whatever  the 
enactment,  it  did  not  apply  to  natives,  or  else  that  he  was  a  very 
fearless  man,  willing  to  take  the  risk  from  which  he  would  save 
me  —  a  sort  of  commercial  philanthropist.  However,  by  that 
time  I  had  other  things  to  think  of,  being  a  drummer  and  a 
very  energetic  one. 

It  came  about  in  this  way :  some  countrymen  of  mine  had 

64 


I  GO  INTO  BUSINESS 


65 


started  a  cooperative  furniture-factor}^  in  Jamestown,  where 
there  were  water-power  and  cheap  lumber.  They  had  no  capital, 
but  just  below  was  the  oil  country,  where  everybody  had  money, 
slathers  of  it.  New  wells  gushed  every  day,  and  boom  towns 
were  springing  up  all  along  the  Allegheny  valley.  Men  were 
streaming  into  it  from  everywhere,  and  needed  furniture.  If 
once  they  got  the  grip  on  that  country,  reasoned  the  furniture- 
makers,  they  would  get  rich  quickly  with  the  rest.  The  thing 
was  to  get  it.  To  do  that  they  needed  a  man  who  could  talk. 
Perhaps  they  remembered  the  creation  of  the  world  the  year 
before.  At  all  events,  they  sent  up  to  Buffalo  and  asked  me  if 
I  would  try. 

I  slammed  my  tool-box  shut  and  started  for  Jamestown  on 
the  next  train.  Twenty-four  hours  later  saw  me  headed  for  the 
oil  country,  equipped  with  a  mighty  album  and  a  price-list. 
The  album  contained  pictures  of  the  furniture  I  had  for  sale. 
All  the  way  down  I  studied  the  price-list,  and  when  I  reached 
Titusville  I  knew  to  a  cent  w^hat  it  cost  my  employers  per  foot 
to  make  ash  extension  tables.  I  only  wish  they  had  known  half 
as  well. 

My  first  customer  was  a  grumpy  old  shopkeeper  who  needed 
neither  tables  nor  bedsteads,  so  he  said.  But  I  had  thought 
it  all  over  and  ma^'e  up  my  mind  that  the  first  blow  was  half  the 
battle.  Therefore  I  knew  better.  I  pushed  my  album  under 
his  nose,  and  it  fell  open  at  the  extension  tables.  Cheap,  I  said, 
and  rattled  off  the  price.  I  saw  him  prick  up  his  ears,  but  he 
only  growled  that  probably  they  were  no  good. 

What !  my  extension  tables  no  good  ?  I  dared  him  to  try 
them,  and  he  gave  me  an  order  for  a  dozen,  but  made  me  sign 
an  agreement  that  they  were  to  be  every  way  as  represented. 
I  would  have  backed  my  tables  with  an  order  for  the  whole 
shop,  so  sure  was  I  that  the}^  could  not  be  beaten.  The  idea! 
With  the  fit  of  righteous  indignation  upon  me,  I  went  out  and 

F 


66 


THE  MAKING  OF  AN  AMERICAN 


sold  every  'other  furniture-dealer  in  Titusville  a  bill  of  tables ; 
not  one  of  them  escaped.  At  night,  when  I  had  sent  the  order 
home,  I  set  out  for  Oil  City,  so  as  to  lose  no  valuable  time. 

It  was  just  the  same  there.  For  some  reason  they  were  sus- 
picious of  the  extension  tables,  yet  they  wanted  nothing  else. 
I  had  to  give  ironclad  guarantees  that  they  were  as  represented, 
which  I  did  impatiently  enough.  There  was  a  thunderstorm 
raging  at  the  time.  The  lightning  had  struck  a  tank,  and  the 
burning  oil  ran  down  a  hill  and  set  the  town  on  fire.  One  end 
of  it  was  burning  while  I  was  canvassing  the  other,  mentally 
calculating  how  many  extension  tables  would  be  needed  to  re- 
place those  that  were  lost.  People  did  not  seem  to  have  heard 
of  any  other  kind  of  furniture  in  that  country.  Walnut  bed- 
steads, marble-top  bureaus,  turned  washstands  —  they  passed 
them  all  by  to  fall  upon  the  tables  with  shrill  demand.  I  made 
out  their  case  to  suit  the  facts,  as  I  swept  down  through  that 
region,  scattering  extension  tables  right  and  left.  It  was  the 
excitement,  I  reasoned,  the  inrush  of  population  from  every- 
where; probably  everybody  kept  boarders,  more  every  day; 
had  to  extend  their  tables  to  seat  them.  I  saw  a  great  oppor- 
tunity and  resolutely  grasped  it.  If  it  was  tables  they  wanted, 
tables  it  should  be.  I  let  all  the  rest  of  the  stock  go  and  threw 
myself  on  the  tables  exclusively.  Town  after  town  I  filled  with 
them.  Night  after  night  the  mails  groaned  under  the  heavy 
orders  for  extension  tables  I  sent  north.  From  Allegheny  City 
alone  an  order  of  a  thousand  dollars'  worth  from  a  single  repu- 
table dealer  went  home,  and  I  figured  in  my  note-book  that 
night  a  commission  of  $50  for  myself  plus  my  salary. 

I  could  know  nothing  of  the  despatches  that  were  hot  on  my 
trail  ever  since  my  first  order  came  from  Titusville,  telling  me 
to  stop,  let  up  on  the  tables,  come  home,  anything;  there  was 
a  mistake  in  the  price.  They  never  overtook  me.  My  pace 
was  too  hot  :or  that.    Anyhow,  I  doubt  if  I  would  have  paid 


I  GO  INTO  BUSINESS 


67 


any  attention  to  them.  I  had  my  instructions  and  was  selUng 
according  to  orders.  Business  was  good,  getting  better  every 
day.  The  firm  wrote  to  my  customers,  but  they  merely  sent 
back  copies  of  the  iron-clad  contract.  They  had  seen  my  in- 
structions, and  they  knew  it  was  all  right.  It  was  not  until 
I  brought  up,  my  last  penny  gone,  in  Rochester,  near  the  Ohio 
line,  that  the  firm  established  communication  with  me  at  last. 
Their  instructions  were  brief :  to  come  home  and  sell  no  more 
tables.  They  sent  $10,  but  gave  me  no  clew  to  their  curious 
decision,  with  things  booming  as  they  were. 

Being  in  the  field  I  considered  that,  whatever  was  up,  I  had 
a  better  command  of  the  situation.  I  decided  that  I  would  not 
go  home,  —  at  least  not  until  I  had  sold  a  few  more  extension 
tables  while  they  were  in  such  demand.  I  made  that  $10  go 
farther  than  $10  ever  went  before.  It  took  me  a  little  way  into 
Ohio,  to  Youngstowm,  and  then  back  to  Pennsylvania,  to  Warren 
and  iMeadville  and  Corry.  My  previous  training  in  going 
hungry  for  days  came  in  handy  at  last.  In  the  interests  of  com- 
merce, I  let  my  dinners  go.  So  I  was  enabled  to  make  a  final 
dash  to  Erie,  where  I  planted  my  last  batch  of  tables  before 
I  went  home,  happy. 

I  got  home  in  time  to  assist  in  the  winding  up  of  the  concern. 
The  iron-clad  contracts  had  done  the  business.  My  customers 
would  not  listen  to  explanations.  When  told  that  the  price  of 
those  tables  was  lower  than  the  cost  of  working  up  the  wood, 
they  replied  that  it  was  none  of  their  business.  They  had  their 
contracts.  The  Allegheny  man  threatened  suit,  if  I  remember 
rightly,  and  the  firm  gave  up.  Nobody  blamed  me,  for  I  had 
sold  according  to  orders ;  but  instead  of  $450  which  I  had  figured 
out  as  my  commission,  I  got  seventj^'-five  cents.  It  was  half 
of  what  my  employer  had.  He  divided  squarely,  and  I  could 
not  in  reason  complain. 

I  sat  in  the  restaurant  where  he  had  explained  the  situation 


68 


THE  MAKING  OF  AN  AMERICAN 


to  me,  and  tried  to  telescope  my  ambitions  down  to  the  seventy- 
five-cent  standard,  when  my  eyes  fell  upon  a  copy  of  Harper^ s 
Weekly  that  lay  on  the  table.  Absent-mindedly  I  read  an  adver- 
tisement in  small  type,  spelling  it  over  idly  while  I  was  trying 
to  think  what  to  do  next. 

^'Wanted,"  it  read,  ''by  the  Myers  Manufacturing  Company," 
agents  to  sell  a  patent  flat  and  fluting  iron.    Samples  75  cents. 

The  address  was  somewhere  in  John  Street,  New  York. 
Samples  seventy-five  cents !  I  repeated  it  mechanically.  Why, 
that  was  just  the  size  of  my  pile.  And  right  in  my  line  of  can- 
vassing, too !  In  ten  minutes  it  was  on  the  way  to  New  York 
and  I  had  secured  a  provisional  customer  in  the  cook  at  the 
restaurant  for  an  iron  that  would  perform  what  this  one  promised, 
iron  the  skirt  and  flute  the  flounce  too.  In  three  days  the  iron 
came  and  proved  good.  I  started  in  canvassing  Jamestown  with 
it,  and  in  a  week  had  secured  orders  for  one  hundred  and  twenty, 
upon  which  my  profit  would  be  over  $80.  Something  of  business 
ways  must  have  stuck  to  me,  after  all,  from  my  one  excursion 
into  the  realm  of  trade ;  for  when  it  came  to  delivering  the  goods 
and  I  had  no  money,  I  went  boldly  to  a  business  man  whose  wife 
was  on  my  books,  and  offered,  if  he  would  send  for  the  irons, 
to  pay  for  them  as  I  took  them  out  of  the  store.  He  made  no 
bones  about  it,  but  sent  for  the  irons  and  handed  them  over  to 
me  to  pay  for  when  I  could.  So  men  are  made.  Commercial 
character,  as  it  is  rated  on  ^change,  I  had  none  before  that : 
but  I  had  after.    How  could  I  disappoint  a  man  like,  that? 

The  confidence  of  the  community  I  had  not  lost  through  my 
too  successful  trip  as  a  drummer,  at  all  events.  Propositions 
came  speedily  to  me  to  ''travel  in"  pianos  and  pumps  for  local 
concerns.  It  never  rains  but  it  pours.  An  old  schoolmate 
who  had  been  ordained  a  clergyman  wrote  to  me  from  Denmark 
to  find  him  a  charge  among  the  Danish  settlements  out  West. 
But  neithei  pumps,  pianos,  nor  parsons  had  power  to  swerve 


I  GO  INTO  BUSINESS 


69 


me  from  my  chosen  course.  With  them  went  bosses  and  orders ; 
with  the  flat-iron  cherished  independence.  When  I  had  sold 
out  Jamestown,  I  made  a  bee-line  for  Pittsburg,  a  city  that 
had  taken  my  fancy  because  of  its  brisk  business  ways.  They 
were  brisk  indeed.  Grant ^s  second  campaign  for  the  Presidency 
was  in  full  swing.  On  my  second  night  in  town  I  went  to  hear 
Horace  Greeley  address  an  open-air  meeting.  I  can  see  his 
noble  old  head  yet  above  the  crowd,  and  hear  his  opening  appeal. 
Farther  I  never  got.  A  marching  band  of  uniformed  shouters 
for  Grant  had  cut  right  through  the  crowd.  As  it  passed  I  felt 
myself  seized ;  an  oilcloth  cape  was  thrown  over  my  head,  a 
campaign  cap  jammed  after,  and  I  found  myself  marching  away 
with  a  torch  on  my  shoulder  to  the  tune  of  a  brass  band  just 
ahead.  How  many  others  of  Mr.  Greeley's  hearers  fared  as 
I  did  I  do  not  know.  The  thing  see;ned  so  ludicrous  (and  if 
I  must  march  I  really  cared  very  little  whether  it  was  for  Greeley 
or  Grant)  that  I  stuck  it  out,  hoping  as  we  went  to  come  some- 
where upon  my  hat,  which  had  been  lost  in  the  sudden  attack ; 
but  I  never  saw  it  again. 

Speaking  of  parading,  my  old  desire  to  roam,  that  kept  crop- 
ping out  at  intervals,  paid  me  a  characteristic  trick  at  this  time. 
I  was  passing  through  a  horse-market  when  I  saw  a  fine-looking, 
shapely  young  hor -9  put  up  at  what  seemed  a  ridiculously  low 
price.  Eighteen  dollars  was  the  bid,  and  it  was  about  to  be 
knocked  down  at  that.  The  October  sun  was  shining  warm 
and  bright.  A  sudden  desire  to  get  on  the  horse  and  ride  out 
into  the  wide  world,  away  from  the  city  and  the  haunts  of  men, 
never  to  come  back,  seized  me.  I  raised  the  bid  to  $19.  Almost 
before  I  knew,  the  beast  was  knocked  down  to  me  and  I  had 
paid  over  the  money.    It  left  me  with  exactly  $6  to  my  name. 

Leading  the  animal  by  the  halter,  I  went  down  the  street  and 
sat  on  the  stoop  of  the  Robinson  House  to  think.  With  every 
step,  perplexities  I  hadn't  thought  of  sprang  up.    In  the  first 


70  THE  MAKING  OF  AN  AMERICAN 


place,  I  could  not  ride.  I  had  always  wanted  to,  but  had  never 
learned.  Even  if  I  had  been  able  to,  where  was  I  going,  and  to 
do  what?  I  couldn't  ride  around  and  sell  flat-irons.  The  wide 
world  seemed  suddenly  a  cold  and  far-off  place,  and  $6  but  small 
backing  in  an  attack  upon  it,  with  a  hungry  horse  waiting  to 
be  fed.  That  was  only  too  evident.  The  beast  was  tearing 
the  hitching-post  with  its  teeth  in  a  way  that  brooked  no  delay. 
Evidently  it  had  a  healthy  appetite.  The  conclusion  was 
slowly  dawning  upon  me  that  I  had  made  a  fool  of  myself, 
when  the  man  who  had  bid  $18  came  by  and  saw  me  sitting 
there.  He  stopped  to  ask  what  was  the  matter,  and  I  told  him 
frankly.  He  roared  and  gave  me  $18  for  the  beast.  I  was 
glad  enough  to  give  it  up.  I  never  owned  a  horse  before  or 
since,  and  I  had  that  less  than  fifteen  minutes;  but  it  was  the 
longest  quarter  of  an  hour  since  I  worked  in  the  coal-mine. 

The  fiat-iron  did  not  go  in  Pittsburg.  It  was  too  cheap. 
During  a  brief  interval  I  peddled  campaign  books,  biit  shortly 
found  a  more  expensive  iron,  and  had  five  counties  in  western 
Pennsylvania  allotted  to  me  as  territory.  There  followed  a 
winter  of  great  business.  Before  it  was  half  over  I  had  ^.chieved 
a  bank  account,  though  how  I  managed  it  is  a  mystery  to  me 
till  this  day.  Simple  as  the  reckoning  of  my  daily  trade  ought 
to  be,  by  no  chance  could  I  ever  make  it  foot  up  as  it  should. 
I  tried  honestly  every  night,  but  the  receipts  would  never  square 
with  the  expenditures,  do  what  I  might.  I  kept  them  carefully 
apart  in  different  pockets,  but  mixed  they  would  get  in  spite 
of  all.  I  had  to  call  it  square,  however  far  the  footing  was  out 
of  the  way,  or  sit  up  all  night,  which  I  would  not  do.  I  remember 
well  the  only  time  I  came  out  even.  I  was  so  astonished  that 
I  would  not  believe  it,  but  had  to  go  all  over  the  account  again. 
That  night  I  slept  the  sleep  of  the  just.  The  next  morning, 
when  I  was  starting  out  on  my  route  with  a  clean  conscience 
and  a  clean  slate,  a  shopkeeper  rapped  on  his  window  as  I  went 


1  GO  INTO  BUSINESS 


71 


by  to  tell  me  that  I  had  given  him  the  previous  day  a  twenty- 
dollar  bill  for  a  ten,  in  making  change.  After  that  I  gave  up 
trying. 

I  was  no  longer  alone.  From  Buffalo  my  old  chum  Ronne 
had  come,  hearing  that  I  was  doing  well,  to  join  me,  and  from 
Denmark  an  old  school-fellow,  whose  life  at  twenty-two  had  been 
wrecked  by  drink  and  who  wrote  begging  to  be  allowed  to  come. 
His  mother  pleaded  for  him  too,  but  it  was  not  needed.  He 
had  enclosed  in  his  letter  the  strongest  tahsman  of  all,  a  letter 
written  by  Elizabeth  in  the  long  ago  when  we  were  children 
together.  I  have  it  yet.  He  came,  and  I  tried  hard  to  break 
him  of  his  failing.  But  I  had  undertaken  a  job  that  was  too 
big  for  me.  Upon  my  return  from  a  Western  trip  I  found  that 
he  had  taken  to  drinking  again,  and  in  his  cups  had  enUsted. 
His  curse  followed  him  into  the  army.  He  rose  to  the  rank  of 
sergeant,  onl}^  to  fall  again  and  suffer  degradation.  The  other 
day  he  shot  himself  at  the  post  where  he  was  stationed,  after 
nearly  thirty  years  of  service.  Yet  in  all  his  ups  and  downs  he 
never  forgot  his  home.  While  his  mother  lived  he  helped 
support  her  in  far-off  Denmark;  and  when  she  was  gone,  no 
month  passed  that  he  did  not  send  home  the  half  of  his  wages 
for  the  support  of  his  crippled  sister  in  the  old  town.  Charles 
was  not  bad.  was  a  poor,  helpless,  unhappy  boy,  who  came 
to  me  for  help,  and  I  had  none  to  give,  God  pity  him  and 
me. 

The  Western  trip  I  spoke  of  was  my  undoing.  Puffed  up 
by  my  success  as  a  salesman,  I  yielded  in  an  evil  hour  to  the 
blandishments  of  my  manufacturers,  and  accepted  the  general 
agency  of  the  State  of  Illinois,  with  headquarters  in  Chicago. 
It  sounded  well,  but  it  did  not  work  well.  Chicago  had  not  yet 
got  upon  its  feet  after  the  great  fire ;  and  its  young  men  were 
too  sharp  for  m.e.  In  six  weeks  they  had  cleaned  me  out  bodily, 
had  run  away  with  my  irons  and  with  money  they  borrowed  of 


72 


THE  MAKING  OF  AN  AMERICAN 


me  to  start  them  in  business.  I  returned  to  Pittsburg  as  poor 
as  ever,  to  find  that  the  agents  I  had  left  behind  in  my  Penn- 
sylvania territory  had  dealt  with  me  after  the  same  fashion. 
The  firm  for  which  I  worked  had  connived  at  the  frauds.  My 
friends  had  left  me.  The  one  I  spoke  of  was  in  the  army.  Ronne 
had  given  up  in  discouragement,  and  was  at  work  in  a  rolling- 
mill.    In  the  utter  wreck  of  all  my  hopes  I  was  alone  again. 

Angry  and  sore,  I  went  up  the  Allegheny  River,  with  no  defi- 
nite purpose  in  mind  except  to  get  away  from  everybody  I  knew. 
At  Franklin  I  fell  ill  with  a  sneaking  fever.  It  was  while  I  lay 
helpless  in  a  lonely  tavern  by  the  riverside  that  the  crushing 
blow  fell.  Letters  from  home,  sent  on  from  Pittsburg,  told  me 
that  Elizabeth  was  to  be  married.  A  cavalry  officer  who  was 
in  charge  of  the  border  police,  a  dashing  fellow  and  a  good  sol- 
dier, had  won  her  heart.  The  wedding  was  to  be  in  the  summer. 
It  was  then  the  last  week  in  April.  At  the  thought  I  turned 
my  face  to  the  wall,  and  hoped  that  I  might  die. 

But  one  does  not  die  of  love  at  twenty-four.  The  days  that 
passed  slowly  saw  me  leave  my  sick-bed  and  limp  down  to  the 
river  on  sunny  days,  to  sit  and  watch  the  stream  listlessly  for 
hours,  hoping  nothing,  grasping  nothing,  except  that  it  was  all 
over.  In  all  my  misadventures  that  was  the  one  thing  I  had 
never  dreamed  of.  If  I  did,  I  as  quickly  banished  the  thought 
as  preposterous.  That  she  should  be  another ^s  bride  seemed 
so  utterly  impossible  that,  sick  and  feeble  as  I  was,  I  laughed 
it  to  scorn  even  then ;  whereat  I  fell  to  reading  the  fatal  letter 
again,  and  irying  to  grasp  its  meaning.  It  made  it  all  only  the 
more  perplexing  that  I  should  not  know  who  he  was  or  what  he 
was.  I  had  never  heard  of  him  before,  in  that  town  where 
I  thought  I  knev/  every  living  soul.  That  he  must  be  a  noble 
fellow  I  knew,  or  he  could  not  have  won  her ;  but  who  —  why 
■ —  what  —  what  had  come  over  everything  in  such  a  short  time, 
and  what  was  this  ugly  dream  that  was  setting  my  brain  awhirl 


I  GO  INTO  BUSINESS 


73 


and  shutting  out  the  sunUght  and  the  day?  Presently  I  was 
in  a  relapse,  and  it  was  all  darkness  to  me,  and  oblivion. 

When  at  last  I  got  well  enough  to  travel,  I  set 'my  face  toward 
the  east,  and  journeyed  on  foot  through  the  northern  coal 
regions  of  Pennsylvania  by  slow  stages,  caring  little  whither 
I  went,  and  earning  just  enough  by  peddling  flat-irons  to  pay 
my  way.  It  was  spring  when  I  started ;  the  autumn  tints  were 
on  the  leaves  when  I  brought  up  in  New  York  at  last,  as  nearly 
restored  as  youth  and  the  long  tramp  had  power  to  do.  But 
the  restless  energ\^  that  had  made  of  me  a  successful  salesman 
was  gone.  I  thought  only,  if  I  thought  at  all,  of  finding  some 
quiet  place  where  I  could  sit  and  see  the  w^orld  go  by  that  con- 
cerned me  no  longer.  With  a  dim  idea  of  being  sent  into  the 
farthest  wilds  as  an  operator,  I  went  to  a  business  college  on 
Fourth  Avenue  and  paid  S20  to  learn  telegraphing.  It  was  the 
last  money  I  had.  I  attended  the  school  in  the  afternoon.  In 
the  morning  I  peddled  flat-irons,  earning  money  for  my  board, 
and  so  made  out. 

One  day,  while  I  was  so  occupied,  I  saw  among  the  ^^want" 
advertisements  in  a  newspaper  one  offering  the  position  of  city 
editor  on  a  Long  Island  City  weekly  to  a  competent  man.  Some- 
thing of  my  old  ambition  stirred  within  me.  It  did  not  occur 
to  me  that  city  editors  were  not  usually  obtained  by  advertising, 
still  less  that  I  was  not  competent,  having  only  the  vaguest 
notions  of  what  the  functions  of  a  city  editor  might  be.  I 
applied  for  the  job,  and  got  it  at  once.  Eight  dollars  a  v»'eek 
was  to  be  my  salary ;  my  job,  to  fill  the  local  column  and  attend 
to  the  affairs  of  Hunter's  Point  and  Blissville  generally,  politics 
excluded.  The  editor  attended  to  that.  In  twenty-four  hours 
I  was  hard  at  work  writing  up  my  then  most  ill-favored  baili- 
wick. It  is  none  too  fine  yet,  but  in  those  days,  when  every 
nuisance  crowd^^d  out  of  Xew  York  found  refuge  there,  it  stunk 
to  heaven. 


74  THE  MAKING  OF  AX  AMERICAN 


Certainly  I  had  entered  journalism  by  the  back  door,  very 
far  back  at  that,  when  I  joined  the  staff  of  the  Review.  Signs 
of  that  appeared  speedily,  and  multiplied  day  by  day.  On  the 
third  day  of  my  employment  I  beheld  the  editor-in-chief  being 
thrashed  down  the  street  by  an  irate  coachman  whom  he  had 
offended,  and  when,  in  a  spirit  of  loyalty,  I  would  have  cast  in 
my  lot  with  him,  I  was  held  back  by  one  of  the  printers  with 
the  laughing  comment  that  that  was  his  daily  diet  and  that  it 
was  good  for  him.  That  was  the  only  way  any  one  ever  got 
any  satisfaction  or  anything  else  out  of  him.  Judging  from 
the  goings  on  about  the  office  in  the  two  weeks  I  was  there,  he 
must  have  been  extensively  in  debt  to  all  sorts  of  people  who 
were  trying  to  collect.  When,  on  my  second  deferred  pay-day, 
I  met  him  on  the  stairs,  propelled  by  his  washer-woman,  who 
brought  her  basket  down  on  his  head  with  every  step  he  took, 
calling  upon  the  populace  (the  stairs  were  outside  the  building) 
to  witness  just  punishment  meted  out  to  him  for  faihng  to  pay 
for  the  washing  of  his  shirts,  I  rightly  concluded  that  the  city 
editor's  claim  stood  no  show.  I  left  him  owing  me  two  weeks' 
pay,  but  I  freely  forgive  him.  I  think  I  got  my  money's  worth 
of  experience.  I  did  not  let  grass  grow  under  my  feet  as  "  city 
editor."  Hunter's  Point  had  received  for  once  a  thorough 
raking  over,  and  I  my  first  lesson  in  hunting  the  elusive  item 
and,  when  found,  making  a  note  of  it. 

Except  for  a  Newfoundland  pup  which  some  one  had  given 
me,  I  went  back  over  the  river  as  poor  as  I  had  come.  The 
dog  proved  rather  a  doubtful  possession  as  the  days  went  by. 
Its  appetite  was  tremendous,  and  its  preference  for  my  society 
embarrassingly  unrestrained.  It  would  not  be  content  to  sleep 
anywhere  else  than  in  my  room.  If  I  put  it  out  in  the  yard, 
it  forthwith  organized  a  search  for  me  in  which  the  entire  neigh- 
iDorhood  was  compelled  to  fake  part,  willy-nilly.  Its  manner 
of  doing  it  boomed  the  local  trade  in  hair-brushes  and  mantel 


I  GO  INTO  BUSINESS 


75 


bric-a-brac,  but  brought  on  complications  with  the  landlord  in 
the  morning  that  usually  resulted  in  the  departure  of  Bob  and 
myself  for  other  pastures.  Part  with  him  I  could  not ;  for  Bob 
loved  me.  Once  I  tried,  when  it  seemed  that  there  was  no  choice. 
I  had  been  put  out  for  perhaps  the  tenth  time,  and  I  had  no  more 
money  left  to  provide  for  our  keep.  A  Wall  Street  broker  had 
advertised  for  a  watch-dog,  and  I  went  with  Bob  to  see  him. 
But  when  he  would  have  counted  the  three  gold  pieces  he  offered 
into  my  hand,  I  saw  Bob^s  honest  brown  eyes  watching  me  with 
a  look  of  such  faithful  affection  that  I  dropped  the  coins  as  if 
they  burned,  and  caught  him  about  the  neck  to  tell  him  that 
we  would  never  part.  Bob  put  his  huge  paws  on  my  shoulders, 
licked  my  face,  and  barked  such  a  joyous  bark  of  challenge  to 
the  world  in  general  that  even  the  Wall  Street  man  was  touched. 

^'I  guess  you  are  too  good  friends  to  part,"  he  said.  And  so 
we  were. 

We  left  Wall  Street  and  its  gold  behind  to  go  out  and  starve 
together.  Literally  we  did  that  in  the  days  that  followed. 
I  had  taken  to  peddling  books,  an  illustrated  Dickens  issued 
by  the  Harpers,  but  I  barely  earned  enough  by  it  to  keep  life 
in  us  and  a  transient  roof  over  our  heads.  I  call  it  transient 
because  it  was  rarely  the  same  two  nights  together,  for  causes 
which  I  have  explained.  In  the  day  Bob  made  out  rather  better 
than  I.  He  couid  always  coax  a  supper  out  of  the  servant  at 
the  basement  gate  by  his  curvetings  and  tricks,  while  I  pleaded 
vainly  and  hungrily  with  the  mistress  at  the  front  door.  Dickens 
was  a  drug  in  the  market.  A  curious  fatality  had  given  me  a 
cop3^  of  ''Hard  Times"  to  canvass  with.  I  think  no  amount  of 
good  fortune  could  turn  my  head  while  it  stands  in  my  bookcase. 
One  look  at  it  brings  back  too  vividh'  that  day  when  Bob  and  I 
had  gone,  desperate  and  breakfastless,  from  the  last  bed  we  might 
knew  for  many  days,  to  try  to  sell  it  and  so  get  the  means  to 
keep  us  for  another  twenty-four  hours. 


76  THE  ]\IAKIXG  OF  AN  AMERICAN 


It  was  not  only  breakfast  we  lacked.  The  day  before  we  had 
had  only  a  crust  together.  Two  days  wathout  food  is  not  good 
preparation  for  a  day's  canvassing.  We  did  the  best  we  could. 
Bob  stood  by  and  wagged  his  tail  persuasively  while  I  did  the 
talking;  but  luck  was  dead  against  us,  and  '^Hard  Times 
stuck  to  us  for  all  we  tried.  Evening  came  and  found  us  down 
by  the  Cooper  Institute,  with  never  a  cent.  Faint  with  hunger, 
I  sat  down  on  the  steps  under  the  illuminated  clock,  while  Bob 
stretched  himself  at  my  feet.  He  had  beguiled  the  cook  in  one 
of  the  last  houses  we  called  at,  and  his  stomach  was  filled.  From 
the  corner  I  had  looked  on  enviously.  For  me  there  was  no 
supper,  as  there  had  been  no  dinner  and  no  breakfast.  To- 
morrov/  there  was  another  day  of  starvation.  How  long  was 
this  to  last?  Was  it  any  use  to  keep  up  a  struggle,  so  hopeless? 
From  this  very  spot  I  had  gone,  hungry  and  wrathful,  three 
years  before  when  the  dining  Frenchmen  for  w^hom  I  wanted 
to  fight  thrust  me  forth  from  their  company.  Three  wasted 
years!  Then  I  had  Oxie  cent  in  my  pocket,  I  remembered. 
To-day  I  had  not  even  so  much.  I  was  bankrupt  in  hope  and 
purpose.  Nothing  had  gone  right;  nothing  would  '^ver  go 
right ;  and,  worse,  I  did  not  care.  I  drummed  moodily  upon 
my  book.  Wasted !  Yes,  that  was  right.  My  life  was  w^asted, 
utterly  wasted. 

A  voice  hailed  me  by  name,  and  Bob  sat  up  looking  attentively 
at  me  for  his  cue  as  to  the  treatment  of  the  owner  of  it.  I  recog- 
nized in  him  the  principal  of  the  telegraph  school  where  I  had 
gone  until  my  money  gave  out.  He  seemed  suddenly  struck 
by  something. 

^'Why,  w^hat  are  you  doing  here?"  he  asked.  I  told  him 
Bob  and  I  were  just  resting  after  a  day  of  canvassing. 

Books!"  he  snorted.  ''I  guess  thej  won't  make  you  rich. 
Now,  how  would  you  like  to  be  a  reporter,  if  you  have  got  noth- 
ing better  to  do?    The  manager  of  a  news  agency  down  town 


I  GO  INTO  BUSINESS 


77 


asked  me  to-day  to  find  him  a  bright  young  fellow  whom  he 
could  break  in.  It  isn't  much  —  810  a  week  to  start  with. 
But  it  is  better  than  peddling  books,  I  know." 

He  poked  over  the  book  in  my  hand  and  read  the  title.  "Hard 
Times/'  he  said,  with  a  little  laugh.  "I  guess  so.  What  do 
you  say?  I  think  you  will  do.  Better  come  along  and  let  me 
give  you  a  note  to  him  now." 

As  in  a  dream,  I  walked  across  the  street  with  him  to  his  office 
and  got  the  letter  which  was  to  make  me,  half-starved  and  home- 
less, rich  as  Croesus,  it  seemed  to  me.  Bob  went  along,  and  be- 
fore I  departed  from  the  school  a  better  home  than  I  could  give 
him  was  found  for  him  with  my  benefactor.  I  was  to  bring 
him  the  next  day.  I  had  to  admit  that  it  was  best  so.  That 
night,  the  last  which  Bob  and  I  spent  together,  we  walked  up 
and  dowm  Broadway,  where  there  was  quiet,  thinking  it  over. 
AMiat  had  happened  had  stirred  me  profoundly.  For  the  second 
time  I  saw  a  hand  held  out  to  save  me  from  wreck  just  when  it 
seemed  inevitable ;  and  I  knew  it  for  His  hand,  to  whose  will 
I  was  at  last  beginning  to  bow  in  humility  that  had  been  a 
stranger  to  me  before.  It  had  ever  been  my  own  will,  my  own 
way,  upon  which  I  insisted.  In  the  shadow  of  Grace  Church 
I  bowed  my  head  against  the  granite  wall  of  the  gray  tower  and 
prayed  for  strength  to  do  the  work  which  I  had  so  long  and 
arduously  sought  and  which  had  now  come  to  me ;  the  while 
Bob  sat  and  looked  on,  saying  clearly  enough  with  his  wagging 
tail  that  he  did  not  know  what  was  going  on,  but  that  he  was 
sure  it  was  all  right.  Then  we  resumed  our  wanderings.  One 
thought,  and  only  one,  I  had  room  for.  I  did  not  pursue  it ; 
it  walked  with  me  wherever  I  went :  She  was  not  married  yet. 
Not  yet.  When  the  sun  rose,  I  washed  my  face  and  hands  in 
a  dog's  drinking-trough,  pulled  my  clothes  into  such  shape  as 
I  could,  and  went  with  Bob  to  his  new  home.  That  parting 
over,  I  walked  down  to  23  Park  Row  and  delivered  my  letter 


78 


THE  MAKING  OF  AN  AMERICAN 


to  the  desk  editor  in  the  New  York  News  Association,  up  on 
the  top  floor. 

He  looked  me  over  a  little  doubtfully,  but  evidently  impressed 
with  the  early  hours  I  kept,  told  me  that  I  might  try.  He  waved 
me  to  a  desk,  bidding  me  wait  until  he  had  made  out  his  morning 
book  of  assignments;  and  with  such  scant  ceremony  was  I 
finally  introduced  to  Newspaper  Row,  that  had  been  to  me 
like  an  enchanted  land.  After  twenty-seven  years  of  hard  work 
in  it,  during  which  I  have  been  behind  the  scenes  of  most  of  the 
plays  that  go  to  make  up  the  sum  of  the  life  of  the  metropolis, 
it  exercises  the  old  spell  over  me  yet.  If  my  sympathies  need 
quickening,  my  point  of  view  adjusting,  I  have  only  to  go  down 
to  Park  Row  at  eventide,  when  the  crowds  are  hurrying  home- 
ward and  the  City  Hall  clock  is  lighted,  particularly  when  the 
snow  lies  on  the  grass  in  the  park,  and  stand  watching  them 
awhile,  to  find  all  things  coming  right.  It  is  Bob  who  stands 
by  and  watches  with  me  then,  as  on  that  night. 

The  assignment  that  fell  to  my  lot  w^hen  the  book  was  made 
out,  the  first  against  which  my  name  was  written  in  a  New  York 
editor ^s  book,  was  a  lunch  of  some  sort  at  the  Astor  House. 
I  have  forgotten  what  was  the  special  occasion.  I  remember 
the  bearskin  hats  of  the  Old  Guard  in  it,  but  little  else.  In  a 
kind  of  haze,  I  beheld  half  the  savory  viands  of  earth  spread 
under  the  eyes  and  nostrils  of  a  man  who  had  not  tasted  food 
for  the  third  day.  I  did  not  ask  for  any.  I  had  reached  that 
stage  of  starvation  that  is  like  the  still  centre  of  a  cyclone, 
when  no  hunger  is  felt.  But  it  may  be  that  a  touch  of  it  all 
crept  into  my  report ;  for  when  the  editor  had  read  it,  he  said 
briefly :  — 

*^You  will  do.  Take  that  desk,  and  report  at  ten  every 
morning,  sharp." 

That  night,  w^hen  I  was  dismissed  from  the  office,  I  went  up 
the  Bowery  to  No.  185,  where  a  Danish  family  kept  a  boarding- 


I  GO  INTO  BUSINESS 


79 


house  up  under  the  roof.    I  had  work  and  wages  now,  and 
could  pay.    On  the  stairs  I  fell  in  a  swoon  and  lay  there  till 
some  one  stumbled  over  me  in  the  dark  and  carried  me  in. 
My  strength  had  at  last  given  out. 
So  began  my  life  as  a  newspaper  man. 


CHAPTER  VI 


In  which  I  Become  an  Editor  and  Receive  my  First 
Love  Letter 

I  HAD  my  hands  full  that  winter.  The  profession  I  had 
entered  by  so  thorny  a  path  did  not  prove  to  be  a  bed  of  roses. 
But  I  was  not  looking  for  roses.  I  doubt  if  I  would  have  known 
what  to  do  with  them  had  there  been  any.  Hard  work  and  hard 
knocks  had  been  my  portion  heretofore,  and  I  was  fairly  trained 
down  to  that.  Besides,  now  that  the  question  where  the  next 
meal  was  to  come  from  did  not  loom  up  whichever  way  I  looked, 
the  thing  for  me  was  to  be  at  work  hard  enough  and  long  enough 
to  keep  from  thinking.  With  every  letter  from  home  I  expected 
to  hear  that  she  was  married,  and  then  —  I  never  got  any  farther.. 
A  furious  kind  of  energy  took  possession  of  me  at  the  mere  idea, 
and  I  threw  myself  upon  my  work  in  a  way  that  speedily  earned 
for  me  the  name  of  a  good  reporter.  '^Good''  had  reference  to 
the  quantity  of  work  done  rather  than  to  the  quality  of  it.  That 
was  of  less  account  than  our  ability  to  ^^get  around'^  to  our 
assignme^^ts ;  necessarily  so,  for  we  mostly  had  six  or  seven  of 
an  evening  to  attend,  our  route  extending  often  from  Harlem 
clear  down  to  the  Bowery.  So  that  they  were  nearly  on  a  line,^' 
we  were  supposed  to  have  no  cause  of  complaint.  Our  office 
sold  news  to  morning  and  evening  papers  both,  and  our  working 
day,  which  began  at  10  a.m.,  was  seldom  over  until  one  or  two 
o^ clock  the  next  morning.    Three  reporters  had  to  attend  to 

80 


I  BECOME  AX  EDITOR 


81 


all  the  general  news  of  the  city  that  did  not  come  through  the 
regular  department  channels. 

A  ciueerly  assorted  trio  we  were:  '^Doc''  Lynch,  who  had 
graduated  from  the  medical  school  to  Bohemia,  following  a 
natural  bent,  I  suppose ;  Crafts,  a  Maine  bo}^  of  angular  frame 
and  prodigious  self-confidence ;  and  myself.  Ljmch  I  have 
lost  sight  of  long  ago.  Crafts,  I  am  told,  is  rich  and  prosperous, 
the  owner  of  a  Western  newspaper.  That  was  bound  to  happen 
to  him.  I  remember  him  in  the  darkest  days  of  that  winter, 
when  to  small  pa}^  hard  work,  and  long  hours  had  been  added 
an  attack  of  measles  that  kept  him  in  bed  in  his  desolate  boarding- 
house,  far  from  kindred  and  friends.  ^^Doc"  and  I  had  run  in 
on  a  stolen  visit  to  fill  their  place  as  well  as  we  might.  We  sat 
around  trying  to  look  as  cheerful  as  we  could  and  succeeding 
very  poorly ;  but  Crafts 's  belief  in  himself  and  his  star  soared 
above  any  trivialities  of  present  discouragement.  I  see  him 
now  rising  on  his  elbow^  and  transfixing  the  two  of  us  with  long 
prophetic  forefinger :  — 

'^The  secret  of  my  success,"  he  said,  impressively,  ^'I  lay 
to  —  "  ^ 

We  never  found  out  to  what  he  laid  it,  for  we  both  burst  out 
laughing,  and  Crafts,  after  a  passing  look  of  surprise,  joined  in. 
But  that  finger  prophesied  truly.  His  pluck  won  the  day,  and 
won  it  fairly.  They  were  two  good  comrades  in  a  tight  place. 
I  shouldn't  want  an}"  better. 

Running  around  was  only  working  off  steam,  of  which  we 
had  plenty.  The  long  rides,  on  Harlem  assignments,  in  horse- 
cars  with  straw  in  the  bottom  that  didn't  keep  our  feet  from  freez- 
ing until  all  feeling  in  them  was  gone,  were  worse,  a  good  deal. 
At  the  mere  thought  of  them  I  fall  to  nursing  my  toes  for  remi- 
niscent pangs.  However,  I  had  at  least  enough  to  eat.  At 
the  downtown  Delmonico's  and  the  other  swell  restaurants 
through  the  w^indows  of  which  I  had  so  often  gazed  with  hungry 


82 


THE  MAKING  OF  AN  AMERICAN 


eyes,  I  now  sometimes  sat  at  big  spreads  and  public  dinners, 
never  without  thinking  of  the  old  days  and  the  poor  fellows  who 
might  then  be  having  my  hard  luck.  It  was  not  so  long  since 
that  I  could  have  forgotten.  I  bit  a  mark  in  the  Mulberry 
Bend,  too,  as  my  professional  engagements  took  me  that  way, 
promising  myself  that  the  day  should  come  when  I  would  have 
time  to  attend  to  it.  For  the  rest,  if  I  had  an  hour  to  spare, 
I  put  it  in  at  the  telegraph  instrument.  I  had  still  the  notion 
that  it  might  not  be  labor  lost.  And  though  I  never  had  pro- 
fessional use  for  it,  it  did  come  handy  to  me  as  a  reporter  more 
than  once.  There  is  scarcely  anything  one  can  learn  that  will 
not  sooner  or  later  be  useful  to  a  newspaper  man,  if  he  is  himself 
of  the  kind  that  wants  to  be  useful. 

Along  in  the  spring  some  politicians  in  South  Brooklyn  who 
had  started  a  weekly  newspaper  to  boom  their  own  fortunes 
found  themselves  in  need  of  a  reporter,  and  were  told  of  a  ''young 
Dutchman who  might  make  things  go.  I  was  that  ''Dutch- 
man.'^ They  offered  me  $15  a  week,  and  on  May  20,  1874, 
I  carried  my  grip  across  the  river,  and,  all  unconscious  that  I 
was  on  the  turning  tide  in  my  fortunes,  cast  in  m\  lot  with 
"Beecher's  crowd,''  as  the  boys  in  the  office  said  derisively 
when  I  left  them. 

In  two  weeks  I  was  the  editor  of  the  paper.  That  was  not 
a  vote  of  confidence,  but  pure  economy  on  the  part  of  my  owners. 
They  saved  forty  dollars  a  week  by  gi\dng  me  twenty-five  and 
the  name  of  editor.  The  idea  of  an  editor  in  anything  but  the 
name  I  do  not  suppose  had  ever  entered  their  minds.  Theirs 
was  an  "organ,"  and  for  the  purposes  for  which  they  had  started 
it  they  thought  themselves  abundantly  able  to  run  it.  I,  on 
my  part,  quickly  grew  high  notions  of  editorial  independence. 
Their  purposes  had  nothing  to  do  with  it.  The  two  views 
proved  irreconcilable.  The}^  clashed  ciuite  regularly,  and  per- 
haps it  was  as  much  that  they  were  tired  of  the  editor  as  that  the 


I  BECOME  AX  EDITOR 


83 


paper  was  a  drag  upon  them  that  made  them  throw  it  up  after 
the  fall  elections,  in  which  they  won.  The  press  and  the  engine 
were  seized  for  debt.  The  last  issue  of  the  South  Brooklyn  News 
had  been  put  upon  the  street,  and  I  went  to  the  city  to  make  a 
bargain  with  the  foundryman  for  the  type.  It  was  in  the  closing 
days  of  the  year.  Christmas  was  at  the  door,  with  its  memories. 
Tired  and  disheartened,  I  was  on  my  way  back,  my  business 
done,  as  the  bells  rang  in  the  Holy  Eve.  I  stood  at  the  bow  of  a 
Fulton  Street  ferryboat  listening  sadly  to  them,  and  watched 
the  lights  of  the  city  kindling  alongshore.  Of  them  all  not  one 
was  for  me.  It  was  all  over,  and  I  should  have  to  strike  a  new 
trail.  Where  would  that  lead?  What  did  it  matter,  anyhow? 
Nobody  cared.    Why  should  I? 

A  beautiful  meteor  shot  out  of  the  heavens  overhead  and 
spanned  the  river  with  a  shining  arc.  I  w^atched  it  sail  slowly 
over  Williamsburg,  its  trail  glowing  bright  against  the  dark 
sky,  and  mechanically  the  old  wish  rose  to  my  lips.  It  was  a 
superstition  with  us  when  we  were  children  that  if  w^e  were 
quick  enough  to  ^Svish  out"  before  the  star  was  extinguished, 
the  wish  would  come  true.  I  had  tried  a  hundred  times,  always 
to  fail ;  but  for  once  I  had  ample  time.  A  bitter  sigh  smothered 
the  wish,  half  uttered.  My  chance  had  come  too  late.  Even 
now  she  might  be  ai>other  man's  wife,  and  I  —  I  had  just  made 
another  failure  of  it,  as  usual. 

It  had  never  happened  in  all  the  holiday  seasons  I  had  been 
away  that  a  letter  from  home  had  reached  me  in  time  for  Christ- 
mas Eve,  and  it  was  a  sore  subject  with  me.  For  it  was  ever 
the  dearest  in  the  year  to  me,  and  is  now.  But  that  evening, 
when  I  came  home,  in  a  very  ill  humor,  for  the  first  time  I  found 
the  coveted  letter.  It  told  me  of  the  death  of  my  two  older 
brothers  and  of  my  favorite  aunt.    In  a  postscript  my  father 

added  that  Lieutf^nant  B  ,  Elizabeth's  affianced  husband, 

had  died  in  the  city  hospital  at  Copenhagen.    She  herself  was 


84  THE  MAKING  OF  AN  AMERICAN 


living  among  strangers.  She  had  chosen  her  lover  when  the 
family  demanded  of  her  that  she  give  him  up  as  a  hopeless 
invalid.  They  thought  it  all  for  her  good.  Of  her  I  should 
have  expected  nothing  less.  But  she  shall  tell  the  story  of  that 
herself. 

I  read  the  letter  through,  then  lay  down  upon  my  bed  and  wept. 
When  I  arose,  it  was  to  go  to  the  owners  of  my  paper  with  a 
proposition  to  buy  it.  They  laughed  at  me  at  first;  asked  to 
see  my  money.  As  a  reporter  for  the  news  bureau  I  had  saved 
up  $75,  rather  because  I  had  no  time  to  spend  it  than  with  any 
definite  notion  of  what  I  was  going  to  do  with  it.  This  I  offered 
to  them,  and  pointed  out  that  the  sale  of  the  old  type,  which 
was  all  that  was  left  of  the  paper  beside  the  good  will,  would 
bring  no  niore.  One  of  them,  more  reasonable  than  the  rest  — 
the  one  who  had  generally  paid  the  scores  while  the  others  took 
the  tricks  —  was  disposed  to  Usten.  The  upshot  of  it  was  that 
I  bought  the  paper  for  $650,  giving  notes  for  the  rest,  to  be  paid 
when  I  could.  If  I  could  not,  they  were  not  much  out.  And 
then,  again,  I  might  succeed. 

I  did ;  by  what  effort  I  hesitate  to  set  down  here  lest  I  be  not 
believed.  The  News  was  a  big  four-page  sheet.  Literally 
every  word  in  it  I  wrote  myself.  I  was  my  own  editor,  reporter, 
publisher,  and  advertising  agent.  My  pen  kept  two  printers 
busy  all  the  week,  and  left  me  time  to  canvass  for  advertisements, 
attend  meetings,  and  gather  the  news.  Friday  night  the  local 
undertaker,  who  advertised  in  the  paper  and  paid  in  kind,  took 
the  foruxS  over  to  New  York,  where  the  presswork  was  done. 
In  the  early  morning  hours  I  shouldered  the  edition  —  it  was 
not  very  large  in  those  days  —  and  carried  it  from  Spruce  Street 
down  to  Fulton  Ferry,  and  then  home  on  a  Fifth  Avenue  car. 
I  recall  with  what  inward  rage  I  submitted  to  being  held  up  by 
every  chance  policeman  and  prodded  facetiously  in  the  ribs  with 
remarks  about  the  ''old  man^s  milHons,^'  etc.    Once  or  twice  it 


I  BECOME  AN  EDITOR 


85 


boiled  over  and  I  was  threatened  with  summary  arrest.  \Vlien 
I  got  home,  I  slept  on  the  counter  with  the  edition  for  my  pillow, 
in  order  to  be  up  with  the  first  gleam  of  daylight  to  skirmish 
for  newsboys.  I  gathered  them  in  from  street  and  avenue, 
compelled  them  to  come  in  if  they  were  not  wilUng,  and  made 
such  inducements  for  them^  that  shortly  South  Brooklyn  re- 
sounded with  the  cry  of  News''  from  sunrise  to  sunset  on 
Saturday.  The  politicians  who  had  been  laughing  at  my 
'Sveekly  funeral"  beheld  with  amazement  the  paper  thrust 
under  their  noses  at  every  step.  They  heard  its  praises,  or  the 
other  thing,  sung  on  every  hand.  From  their  point  of  view  it 
was  the  same  thing:  the  paper  was  talked  of.  Their  utmost 
effort  had  failed  of  that.  Wlien,  on  June  5,  Her  birthday, 
I  paid  do^vn  in  hard  cash  what  was  left  of  the  purchase  sum 
and  hoisted  the  flag  over  an  independent  newspaper,  freed  from 
debt,  they  came  around  with  honeyed  speeches  to  make  friends. 
I  scarcely  heard  them.  Deep  down  in  my  soul  a  voice  kept 
repeating  unceasingly :  Elizabeth  is  free !  She  is  free,  free ! 
That  night,  in  the  seclusion  of  my  den,  clutching  grimly  the 
kdder  upon  which  I  had  at  last  got  my  feet,  I  resolved  that  I 
would  reach  the  top,  or  die  climbing.  The  morning  sun  shone 
through  my  window  and  found  me  sleepless,  pouring  out  my 
heart  to  her,  four  thousand  miles  away. 

I  carried  the  letter  to  the  post-ofl[ice  myself,  and  waited  till 
I  saw  it  started  on  its  long  journey.  I  stood  watching  the 
carrier  till  he  turned  the  corner;  then  went  back  to  my  work. 

To  that  work  there  had  been  added  a  fresh  spur  just  when 
I  was  at  last  free  from  all  trammels.  The  other  strongest  of 
human  emotions  had  been  stirred  within  me.  In  a  Methodist 
revival  —  it  was  in  the  old  Eighteenth  Street  Church  —  I  had 
fallen  under  the  spell  of  the  preacher's  fiery  eloquence.  Brother 
Simmons  was  of  the  old  circuit-riders'  stock,  albeit  their  day 
was  long  past  in  our  staid  community.    He  had  all  their  power, 


86 


THE  MAKING  OF  AN  AMERICAN 


for  the  epirit  burned  within  him;  and  he  brought  me  to  the 
altar  quickly,  though  in  my  own  case  conversion  refused  to 
work  the  prescribed  amount  of  agony.  Perhaps  it  was  because 
I  had  heard  Mr.  Beecher  question  the  correctness  of  the  pre- 
scription. When  a  man  travelUng  in  the  road  found  out,  he 
said,  that  he  had  gone  wrong,  he  did  not  usually  roll  in  the  dust 
and  agonize  over  his  mistake;  he  just  turned  around  and  went 
the  other  way.  It  struck  me  so,  but  none  the  less  with  deep 
conviction.  In  fact,  with  the  heat  of  the  convert,  I  decided 
on  the  spot  to  throw  up  my  editorial  work  and  take  to  preaching. 
But  Brother  Simmons  would  not  hear  of  it. 

''No,  no,  Jacob,"  he  said;  ''not  that.  We  have  preachers 
enough.    What  the  wwld  needs  is  consecrated  pens." 

Then  and  there  I  consecrated  mine.  I  wish  I  could  honestly 
say  that  it  has  always  come  up  to  the  high  ideal  set  it  then. 
I  can  say,  though,  that  it  has  ever  striven  toward  it,  and  that 
scarce  a  day  has  passed  since  that  I  have  not  thought  of  the 
charge  then  laid  upon  it  and  upon  me. 

The  immediate  result  was  a  campaign  for  reform  that  made 
the  town  stare.  It  struck  the  politicians  first.  Th^y  were 
Democrats,  and  I  was  running  a  Democratic  paper.  I  did  it 
con  amore,  too,  for  it  was  in  the  days  of  the  scandals  of  Grant's 
second  term,  and  the  disgrace  of  it  was  foul.  So  far  we  were  agreed. 
But  it  happened  that  the  chief  obstacle  to  Democratic  success 
in  the  Twenty-second  Ward,  where  my  paper  was  located,  was 
the  police  captain  of  the  precinct,  John  Mackellar,  who  died 
the  other  day  as  Deputy  Chief  of  the  Borough  of  Brooklyn. 
Mackellar  was  a  Republican  of  a  pronounced  type  and  a  good 
deal  of  a  politician  besides.  Therefore  he  must  go.  But  he  was 
my  friend.  I  had  but  tw^o  in  the  entire  neighborhood  who  really 
cared  for  me  —  Edward  Wells,  clerk  in  a  drug-store  across  the 
street,  who  was  of  my  ow^n  age,  and  Mackellar.  Between  us 
had  sprung  dp  a  strong  attachment,  and  I  could  not  think  of 


I  BECOME  AX  EDITOR 


87 


having  Mackellar  removed,  particularly  as  he  had  done  nothing 
to  deserve  it.  He  was  a  good  policeman.  I  told  the  bosses  so. 
They  insisted ;  pleaded  political  expedience.  I  told  them  I 
would  not  allow  it,  and  when  they  went  ahead  in  spite  of  me, 
told  the  truth  about  it  in  my  paper.  The  Twenty-second  was 
really  a  Republican  ward.  The  attitude  of  the  News  killed 
the  job. 

The  Democratic  bosses  were  indignant. 

''How  can  we  run  the  ward  ^^^th  you  acting  that  way?"  they 
asked.  I  told  them  I  did  not  care  if  they  didn't.  I  could  run 
it  better  myself,  it  seemed. 

They  said  nothing.  They  had  other  resources.  The  chief 
of  them  —  he  was  a  judge  —  came  around  and  had  a  friendly 
talk  with  me.  He  showed  me  that  I  was  going  against  my  own 
interest.  I  was  just  starting  out  in  life.  I  had  energ}^  educa- 
tion. They  were  qualities  that  in  politics  were  convertible 
into  gold,  much  gold,  if  I  would  but  follow  him  and  his  fortunes. 

''I  never  had  an  education,"  he  said.  ''I  need  you.  If  you 
^vill  stick  to  me,  I  will  make  you  rich." 

I  think  he  meant  it.  He  certainly  could  have  done  so  had  he 
chosen.  He  himself  died  rich.  He  was  not  a  bad  fellow,  as 
bosses  go.  But  I  did  not  like  boss  politics.  And  the  bait  did 
not  tempt  me.  I :  ever  wanted  to  be  rich.  I  am  afraid  it  would 
make  me  grasping;  I  think  I  am  built  that  way.  Anyhow, 
it  is  too  much  bother.  I  wanted  to  run  my  own  paper,  and  I 
told  him  so. 

''Well,"  he  said,  "you  are  3"oung.    Think  it  over." 

It  was  some  time  after  that  I  read  in  a  newspaper,  upon 
returning  from  a  hunting  trip  to  Staten  Island,  that  I  had  been 
that  day  appointed  an  interpreter  in  my  friend  the  judge^s 
court,  at  a  salary  of  SlOO  a  month.  I  went  to  him  and  asked 
him  what  it  meant. 

"Well,"  he  said,  "we  need  an  interpreter.    There  are  a  good 


88  THE  MAKING  OF  AN  AMERICAN 


many  Scandinavians  and  Germans  in  my  district.  You  know 
their  language?'^ 

^^But/'  I  protested,  ^^I  have  no  time  to  go  interpreting  poUce 
court  cases.    I  don't  want  the  office." 

He  pushed  me  out  with  a  friendly  shoulder-pat.  ^'You  go 
back  and  wait  till  I  send  for  you.  We  can  lump  the  cases,  and 
we  won't  need  you  every  day." 

In  fact,  they  did  not  need  me  more  than  two  or  three  times 
that  month,  at  the  end  of  which  I  drew  my  pay  with  many 
qualms  of  conscience.  My  services  were  certainly  not  worth 
the  money  I  received.  Such  is  the  soothing  power  of  public 
^^pap":  on  the  second  pay-day,  though  I  had  performed  even 
less  service,  I  did  not  feel  nearly  so  bad  about  it.  My  third  check 
I  drew  as  a  matter  of  course.  I  was  ^^one  of  the  boys"  now, 
and  treated  with  familiarity  by  men  whom  I  did  not  like  a  bit, 
and  who,  I  am  sure,  did  not  like  me.  But  the  cordiality  did  not 
long  endure.  It  soon  appeared  that  the  interpreter  in  the 
judge's  court  had  other  duties  than  merely  to  see  justice  done  to 
helpless  foreigners;  among  them  to  see  things  politically  as 
His  Honor  did.  I  did  not.  A  ruction  followed  speedily  — 
I  think  it  was  about  our  old  friend  Mackellar — that  wound  up 
by  his  calling  me  an  ingrate.  It  was  a  favorite  word  of  his,  as 
I  have  noticed  it  is  of  all  bosses,  and  it  meant  everything  repre- 
hensible. He  did  not  discharge  me;  he  couldn't.  I  was  as 
much  a  part  of  the  court  as  he  was,  having  been  appointed  under 
a  State  law.  But  the  power  of  the  Legislature  that  had  created 
me  was  invoked  to  kill  me,  and,  for  appearance's  sake,  the  office. 
Before  it  adjourned,  the  same  Legislature  resurrected  the  office, 
but  not  me.  So  contradictory  is  human  nature  that  by  that 
time  I  was  quite  ready  to  fight  for  my  ^'rights."  But  for  once 
I  was  outclassed.  The  judge  and  the  Legislature  were  too  many 
for  me,  and  I  retired  as  gracefully  as  I  could. 

So  ceased  my  career  as  a  public  officer,  and  forever.    It  was 


I  BECOME  AX  EDITOR 


89 


the  only  office  I  ever  held;  and  I  do  not  want  another.  I  am 
ashamed  yet,  twenty-five  years  after,  of  havmg  held  that  one. 
Because,  however  I  try  to  gloss  it  over,  I  was,  while  I  held  it, 
a  sinecurist,  pure  and  simple. 

However,  it  did  not  dampen  ni}^  zeal  for  reform  m  the  least. 
That  encompassed  the  whole  range  of  my  little  world  ;  nor  would 
it  brook  delay  even  for  a  minute.  It  did  not  consider  ways 
and  means,  and  was  in  nowise  tempered  with  discretion.  Look- 
ing back  now,  it  seems  strange  that  I  never  was  made  to  figure 
in  the  police  court  in  those  da^^s  in  another  capacity  than  that 
of  interpreter.  Not  that  I  did  anything  for  which  I  should 
have  been  rightl}^  jailed.  But  people  will  object  to  being 
dragged  by  the  hair  even  in  the  ways  of  reform.  When  the 
grocer  on  my  corner  complained  that  he  was  being  ruined  by 
^'beats''  who  did  not  pay  their  bills  and  thereby  compelled 
him  to  charge  those  who  did  pay  more,  in  order  that  he  might 
live,  I  started  in  at  once  to  make  those  beats  pay  up.  I  gave 
notice,  in  a  plain  statement  of  the  case  in  my  editorial  columns, 
that  they  must  settle  their  scores  for  the  sake  of  the  grocer  and 
the  general  good,  or  I  would  publish  their  names.  I  was  as 
good  as  my  word.  I  not  only  published  the  list  of  them,  but 
how  much  and  how  long  they  owed  it,  and  called  upon  them  to 
pay  or  move  out     the  ward. 

Did  they  move?  Well,  no!  Perhaps  it  was  too  much  to 
expect.  They  w^ere  comfortable.  They  stayed  to  poison  the 
mind  of  the  town  against  the  man  who  was  lying  awake  nights 
to  serve  it;  in  which  laudable  effort  they  were  ably  seconded 
by  the  corner  grocer.  I  record  without  regret  the  subsequent 
failure  of  that  tradesman.  There  were  several  things  wrong 
with  the  details  of  m}^  campaign,  —  for  one  thing,  I  had  omitted 
to  include  him  among  the  beats,  —  but  in  its  large  lines  we  can 
all  agree  that  it  was  right.  It  was  only  another  illustration  of 
the  difficulty  of  reducing  high  preaching  to  practice.  Instead 


90  THE  MAKING  OF  AN  AMERICAN 


of  society  hailing  me  as  its  saviour,  I  grew  personally  unpopular. 
I  doubt  if  I  had  another  friend  in  the  world  beside  the  two  I 
have  mentioned.  But  the  circulation  of  my  paper  grew  enor- 
mously. It  was  doubled  and  trebled  week  by  week  —  a  fact 
which  I  accepted  as  public  recognition  of  the  righteousness  of 
my  cause.  I  was  wrong  in  that.  The  fact  was  that  ours  was 
a  community  of  people  with  a  normally  healthy  appetite  for 
knowing  one^s  neighbor's  business.  I  suppose  the  thing  has 
been  mistaken  before  by  inexperience  for  moral  enthusiasm, 
and  w^ill  be  again. 

I  must  stop  here  to  tell  the  reason  why  I  would  not  convict 
the  meanest  thief  on  circumstantial  evidence.  I  would  rather 
let  a  thousand  go  free  than  risk  with  one  what  I  risked  and 
shudder  yet  to  think  of.  There  had  been  some  public  excite- 
ment that  summer  about  mad  dogs,  especially  spitz  dogs.  A 
good  many  persons  had  been  bitten,  and  the  authorities  of 
Massachusetts,  if  I  remember  rightly,  had  put  that  particular 
breed  under  the  ban  as  dangerous  at  all  times.  There  was  one 
always  prow^ling  about  the  lot  behind  my  office,  through  which 
the  way  led  to  my  boarding-house,  and,  w^hen  it  snappe-d  at  my 
leg  in  passing  one  day,  I  determined  to  kill  it  in  the  interest  of 
public  safety.  I  sent  my  office-boy  out  to  buy  a  handful  of 
buckshot,  and,  when  he  brought  it,  set  about  loading  both 
barrels  of  the  fowling-piece  that  stood  in  my  office.  While 
I  was  so  occupied,  my  friend  the  drug-clerk  came  in,  and  wanted 
to  know  what  I  was  up  to.  Shooting  a  dog,  I  said,  and  he 
laughed :  -  — 

Looks  as  though  you  were  going  gunning  for  your  beats.'' 
I  echoed  his  laugh  thoughtlessly  enough;  but  the  thing  re- 
minded me  that  it  was  unlawful  to  shoot  vrlthin  the  city  limits, 
and  I  sent  the  boy  up  to  the  station  to  tell  the  captain  to  never 
mind  if  he  heard  shooting  around.  I  was  going  out  for  a  dog. 
With  that  I  went  forth  upon  my  quest. 


I  BECOME  AX  EDITOR 


91 


The  dog  was  there ;  but  he  escaped  before  I  could  get  a  shot 
at  him.  He  dodged, -growling  and  snapping,  among  the  weeds, 
and  at  last  ran  into  a  large  enclosed  lot  in  which  there  were 
stacks  of  lumber  and  junk  and  many  hiding-places.  I  knew 
that  he  could  not  get  out,  for  the  board  fence  was  high  and 
tight.    So  I  went  in  and  shut  the  door  after  me,  and  had  him. 

I  should  have  said  before  that  among  my  enemies  was  a  worth- 
loss  fellow,  a  hanger-on  of  the  local  political  machine,  who  had 
that  afternoon  been  in  the  office  annoying  me  with  his  loud  and 
boisterous  talk.  He  was  drunk,  and  as  there  were  some  people 
to  see  me,  I  put  him  out.  He  persisted  in  coming  back,  and 
I  finally  told  him,  in  the  hearing  of  a  dozen  persons,  to  go  about 
his  business,  or  some  serious  harm  would  befall  him.  If  I  con- 
nected any  idea  with  it,  it  was  to  call  a  policeman;  but  I  left 
them  to  infer  something  worse,  1  suppose.  Getting  arrested 
was  not  very  serious  business  with  him.    He  went  out,  swearing. 

It  was  t\^^hght  when  I  began  my  still-hunt  for  the  spitz  in 
the  lumber  lot,  and  the  outhnes  of  things  were  more  or  less 
vague ;  but  I  followed  the  dog  about  until  at  last  I  made  him 
out  standing  on  a  pile  of  boards  a  iittJe  way  off.  It  was  my 
chance.  I  raised  the  gun  quickly  and  took  aim.  I  had  both 
barrels  cocked  and  my  finger  on  the  trigger,  when  something 
told  me  quite  distinctly  not  to  shoot ;  to  put  dowm  the  gun  and 
go  closer.  I  did  so,  and  found,  not  the  dog  as  I  thought,  but 
my  enemy  whom  I  had  threatened  but  an  hour  or  two  before, 
asleep  at  full  length  on  the  stack,  with  his  coat  rolled  under  his 
head  for  a  pillow.  It  was  his  white  shirt-bosom  which  I  had 
mistaken  in  the  twdlight  for  the  spitz  dog. 

He  never  knew  of  his  peril.  I  saw  my  own  at  a  glance,  and 
it  appalled  me.  Stranger  that  I  was,  hated  and  denounced  by 
many  who  would  have  posed  as  victims  of  my  \dolence ;  with 
this  record  against  me  of  threatening  the  man  whom  I  would 
be  accused  of  having  slain  an  hour  later;  with  my  two  only 


92  THE  MAKING  OF  AN  AMERICAN 


friends  compelled  to  give  e\ddence  which  would  make  me  out 
as  artfully  plotting  murder  under  the  shield  of  a  palpable  in- 
vention —  for  who  ever  heard  of  any  one  notifying  the  police 
that  he  was  going  to  shoot  a  dog?  —  with  no  family  connection 
or  pre\dous  good  character  to  build  a  defence  upon :  where 
would  have  been  my  chance  of  escape?  ^Yhat  stronger  chain 
of  circumstantial  evidence  could  have  been  woven  to  bring  me, 
an  innocent  man,  to  the  gallows?  I  have  often  wished  to  forget 
that  evening  by  the  sleeping  man  in  the  lumber  lot.  I  cannot 
even  now  write  calmly  about  it.  Many  months  passed  before 
I  could  persuade  myseK  to  touch  m}^  gun,  fond  as  I  had  always 
been  of  carrying  it  through  the  woods. 

Of  all  this  the  beats  knew  nothing.  They  kept  up  their  war- 
fare of  backbiting  and  of  raising  petty  ructions  at  the  office 
when  I  was  not  there,  until  I  hit  upon  the  plan  of  putting  Pat 
in  charge.  Pat  was  a  typical  Irish  coal-heaver,  who  would  a 
sight  rather  fight  than  eat.  There  was  a  coal  office  in  the  build- 
ing, and  Pat  was  generally  hanging  around,  looking  for  a  job. 
I  paid  him  a  dollar  a  week  to  keep  the  office  clear  of  intruders, 
and  after  that  there  was  no  trouble.  There  was  ne^:^er  any 
fighting,  either.  The  mere  appearance  of  Pat  in  the  doorway 
was  enough,  to  his  great  disgust.  It  was  a  success  as  far  as 
preserving  the  peace  of  the  office  was  concerned.  But  with  it 
there  grew  up,  unknown  to  me,  an  impression  that  personally 
I  would  not  fight,  and  the  courage  of  the  beats  rose  cor- 
respondingl3^  They  determined  to  ambush  me  and  have  it  out 
with  me.  One  wintry  Saturday  night,  when  I  was  alone  in  the 
office  closing  up  the  business  of  the  week,  they  met  on  the  oppo- 
site corner  to  see  me  get  a  thrashing.  One  of  their  number, 
a  giant  in  stature,  but  the  biggest  coward  of  the  lot,  was  to 
administer  it.  He  was  fitted  out  with  an  immense  hickory 
club  for  the  purpose,  and  to  nerve  his  arm  they  filled  him  with 
drink. 


I  BECOME  AN  EDITOR 


93 


My  office  had  a  large  window  running  the  whole  length  of  the 
front,  with  a  sill  knee-high  that  made  a  very  good  seat  when 
chairs  were  scarce.  Only  one  had  to  be  careful  not  to  lean  against 
the  window.  It  was  made  of  small  panes  set  in  a  slight  wooden 
frame\vork,  which  every  strong  wind  blew  out  or  in,  and  I  was 
in  constant  dread  lest  the  whole  thing  should  collapse.  On  that 
particular  night  the  \\'indow  was  covered  with  a  heavy  hoar- 
frost, so  that  it  was  quite  impossible  to  see  from  outside  what 
was  going  on  ^vithin,  or  vice  versa.  From  my  seat  behind  the 
desk  I  caught  sight  through  the  door,  as  it  was  opened  by  a 
chance  caller,  of  the  gang  on  the  opposite  corner,  with  Jones 
and  his  hickory  club,  and  knew  what  was  coming.  I  knew  Jones, 
too,  and  awaited  his  debut  as  a  fighter  with  some  curiosity. 

He  came  over,  bravely  enough,  after  the  fifth  or  sixth  drink, 
opened  the  door,  and  marched  in  with  the  tread  of  a  grenadier. 
But  the  moment  it  fell  to  behind  him,  he  stood  and  shook  so 
that  the  club  fairly  rattled  on  the  floor.  Outside  the  gang 
were  hugging  their  sides  in  expectation  of  what  was  coming. 

^^Well,  Jones,''  I  said,  '^vhat  is  it?'' 

He  mumbled  something  so  tremulously  and  incoherently  that 
I  felt  really  sorry  for  him.  Jones  was  not  a  bad  fellow,  though  he 
was  in  bad  company  just  then.  I  told  him  so,  and  that  it  would 
be  best  for  him  to  out  quietly,  or  he  might  hurt  himself.  He 
seemed  to  be  relieved  at  the  suggestion,  and  when  I  went  from 
behind  the  counter  and  led  him  toward  the  door,  he  went  will- 
ingly enough.  But  as  I  put  my  hand  on  the  latch  he  remem- 
bered his  errand,  and,  with  a  sudden  plucking  up  of  courage 
at  the  thought  of  the  waiting  gang,  he  raised  the  stick  to  strike 
at  me. 

Honestly,  I  didn't  touch  the  man  with  a  finger.  I  suppose 
he  stumbled  over  the  sill,  as  I  had  sometimes  done  in  my  sober 
senses.  Wiatevf^r  the  cause,  he  fell  against  the  window,  and 
out  witli  him  it  went,  the  whole  of  the  glass  front,  with  a  crash 


94 


THE  MAKING  OF  AN  AMERICAN 


that  resounded  from  one  end  of  the  avenue  to  the  other,  and 
brought  neighbors  and  pohceinen,  among  them  my  friend  the 
captain,  on  a  run  to  the  store.  In  the  midst  of  the  wreck 
lay  Jones,  moaning  feebly  that  his  back  was  broken.  The 
beats  crowded  around  with,  loud  outcry. 

^^He  threw  him  out  of  the  window,"  they  cried.  '^We  saw 
him  do  it!  Through  window  and  all,  threw  him  bodily!  Did 
he  not,  Jones?'' 

Jones,  who  was  being  picked  up  and  carried  into  my  office, 
where  they  laid  him  on  the  counter  while  they  sent  in  haste 
for  a  doctor,  nodded  that  it  was  so.  Probably  he  thought  it 
was.  I  cannot  even  blame  the  beats.  It  must  have  seemed 
to  them  that  I  threw  him  out.  They  called  upon  the  captain 
with  vehement  demand  to  arrest  me  for  murder.  I  looked 
at  him ;  his  face  was  serious. 

'^Why,  I  didn't  touch  him,"  I  said  indignantly.  ^^He  must 
have  fallen." 

Fallen  !"  they  shouted.  We  saw  him  come  flying  through. 
Fallen  !    Look  at  the  window  ! "    And  indeed  it  was  a  sorrj^  sight. 

Dr.  Howe  came  with  his  instrument  box,  and  the  crowd  in- 
creased. The  doctor  was  a  young  man  who  had  been  very  much 
amused  by  my  battle  with  the  beats,  and,  though  he  professed 
no  special  friendship  for  me,  had  no  respect  for  the  others.  He 
felt  the  groaning  patient  over,  punched  him  here  and  there, 
looked  surprised,  and  felt  again.  Then  he  winked  one  eye  at 
the  captain  and  me. 

*'Jonef,"  he  said,  ''get  up!  There  is  nothing  the  matter 
with  you.    Go  and  get  sober." 

The  beats  stood  speechless. 

''He  came  right  through  this  window,"  they  began.  "We  saw 
him—" 

"  Something  has  come  through  the  window,  evidently,"  said 
the  captain,  with  asperity,  "and  broken  it.    Who  is  to  pay  for 


I  BECOME  AX  EDITOR 


95 


it?  If  you  say  it  was  Jones,  it  is  niy  duty  to  hold  you  as  wit- 
nesses, if  Mr.  Riis  makes  a  charge  of  disorder!}^  conduct  against 
him,  as  I  suppose  he  will."  He  trod  hard  on  my  toe.  man 
cannot  jump  through  another  man's  window  like  that.  Here, 
let  me  — " 

But  they  were  gone.  I  never  heard  from  them  again.  But 
ever  after  the  reputation  clung  to  me  of  being  a  terrible  fighter 
when  roused.  Jones  swore  to  it,  drunk  or  sober.  Twenty  wit- 
nesses backed  him  up.  I  was  able  to  discharge  Pat  that  week. 
There  was  never  an  ill  word  in  ni}"  street  after  that.  I  suppose 
my  renowTi  as  a  scrapper  survives  yet  in  the  old  ward.  As  in 
the  other  case,  the  chain  of  circumstantial  evidence  was  perfect. 
No  link  was  missing.  None  could  have  been  forged  to  make  it 
stronger. 

I  wouldn't  hang  a  dog  on  such  evidence.  And  I  think  I  am 
justified  in  taking  that  stand. 

The  summer  and  fall  had  worn  awa}^  and  no  word  had  come 
from  home.  Mother,  who  knew,  gave  no  sign.  Every  day, 
when  the  letter-carrier  came  up  the  ^reet,  my  hopes  rose  high 
until  he  had  passed.  The  letter  I  longed  for  never  came.  It 
was  farthest  from  m}^  thoughts  when,  one  night  in  the  closing 
dsLjs  of  a  hot  political  campaign,  I  went  to  my  office  and  found 
it  lying  there.  I  knew  b}^  the  throbbing  of  my  heart  what  it 
was  the  instant  I  saw  it.  I  think  I  sat  as  much  as  a  quarter  of 
an  hour  staring  dumbly  at  the  unopened  envelope.  Then  I 
arose  slowly,  like  one  grow^n  suddenly  old,  put  it  in  my  pocket, 
and  ^tumbled  homeward,  walking  as  if  in  a  dream.  I  went  up 
to  my  room  and  locked  m^^self  in. 

It  lies  before  me  as  I  write,  that  blessed  letter,  the  first  love- 
letter  I  had  ever  received ;  much  faded  and  worn,  and  patched 
in  many  places  to  keep  it  together.  The  queer  row  of  foreign 
stamps  climbing  over  one  another  —  she  told  me  afterward  that 
she  had  no  idea  how  many  were  needed  for  a  letter  to  America, 


96  THE  MAKING  OF  AN  AMERICAN 


and  was  afraid  to  ask,  so  she  put  on  three  times  more  than  would 
have  been  enough  —  and  the  address  in  her  fair  round  hand, 

Mr.  Jacob  A.  Riis, 

Editor  South  Brooklyn  News, 

Fifth  Avenue  cor.  Ninth  Street, 
Brooklyn,  N.  Y., 
North  America, 

the  postmark  of  the  little  town  of  Hadersleben,  where  she  was 
teaching  school,  the  old-fashioned  shape  of  the  envelope  —  they 
all  then  and  there  entered  into  my  life  and  became  part  of  it,  to 
abide  forever  with  hght  and  joy  and  thanksgiving.  How  much 
of  sunshine  one  little  letter  can  contain !  Six  years  seemed  all 
at  once  the  merest  breath  of  time  to  have  waited  for  it.  Toil, 
hardship,  trouble  —  with  that  letter  in  my  keep  ?  I  laughed 
out  loud  at  the  thought.  The  sound  of  my  own  voice  sobered 
me.  I  knelt  down  and  prayed  long  and  fervently  that  I  might 
strive  with  all  my  might  tg  deserve  the  great  happiness  that  had 
come  to  me. 

The  stars  were  long  out  when  my  landlord,  who  had  heard  my 
restless  walk  overhead,  knocked  to  ask  if  anything  was  the 
matter.  He  must  have  seen  it  in  my  face  when  he  opened  the 
door,  for  he  took  a  sidelong  step,  shading  his  eyes  from  the  lamp 
to  get  a  better  look,  and  held  out  his  hand. 

''Wish  you  joy,  old  man,''  he  said  heartily.  ''Tell  us  of  it, 
will  you?''    And  I  did. 

It  is  tiae  that  all  the  world  loves  a  lover.  It  smiled  upQn  me 
all  day  long,  and  I  smiled  back.  Even  the  beats  looked  askance 
at  me  no  longer.  The  politicians  who  came  offering  to  buy  the 
influence  of  my  paper  in  the  election  were  allowed  to  escape  with 
their  lives.  I  wrote  —  I  think  I  wrote  to  her  every  day.  At 
least  that  is  what  I  do  now  when  I  go  away  from  home.  She 
laughs  when  she  tells  me  that  in  the  first  letter  I  spoke  of  coming 


I  BECO:\IE  AX  EDITOR 


97 


home  in  a  year.  Meanwhile,  according  to  her  wish,  we  were  to 
say  nothing  about  it.  In  the  second  letter  I  decided  upon  the 
following  spring.  In  the  third  I  spoke  of  perhaps  going  in  the 
\\'inter.  The  fourth  and  fifth  preferred  the  early  winter.  The 
sixth  reached  her  from  Hamburg,  on  the  heels  of  a  telegram  an- 
nouncing that  I  had  that  day  arrived  in  Frisia. 

^Yh^xt  had  happened  was  that  just  at  the  right  moment  the 
politicians  had  concluded,  upon  the  evidence  of  the  recent  elec- 
tions, that  they  could  not  allow  an  independent  paper  in  the 
ward,  and  had  offered  to  buy  it  outright.  I  was  dreadfully  over- 
worked. The  doctor  urged  a  change.  I  did  not  need  much 
urging.  So  I  sold  the  paper  for  five  times  what  I  had  paid  for 
it,  and  took  the  first  steamer  for  home.  Onh'  the  other  day, 
when  I  was  lecturing  in  Chicago,  a  woman  came  up  and  asked  if 
I  was  the  Riis  she  had  travelled  with  on  a  Hamburg  steamer 
twenty-five  years  before,  and  who  was  going  home  to  be  married. 
She  had  never  forgotten  how  happy  he  was.  She  and  the  rest 
of  the  passengers  held  it  to  be  their  duty  to  warn  me  that  '^She 
might  not  turn  out  as  nice  as  I  thought  she  was. 

''I  guess  we  might  have  spared  ourselves  the  trouble,'^  she 
said,  looking  me  over. 

Yes,  they  might.  But  I  shall  have  to  put  off  telhng  of  that 
till  next  time.  And  I  shall  let  EUzabeth,  my  Elizabeth  now, 
tell  her  part  of  it  in  her  own  way. 


CHAPTER  VII 


Elizabeth  Tells  Her  Story 

How  well  I  remember  the  days  of  which  my  husband  has 
written  —  our  childhood  in  the  old  Danish  town  where  to  this 
day,  in  spite  of  my  love  for  America,  the  air  seems  fresher,  the 
meadows  greener,  the  sea  more  blue,  and  where  above  it  all  the 
skylark  sings  his  song  clearer,  softer,  and  sweeter  than  anywhere 
else  in  the  world  !  I  —  it  is  too  bad  that  we  cannot  tell  our  own 
stories  without  all  the  time  talking  about  ourselves,  but  it  is  so, 
and  there  is  no  help  for  it.  Well,  then,  I  was  a  happy  little  girl 
in  those  days.  Though  my  own  father,  a  county  lawyer,  had 
died  early  and  left  my  dear  mother  without  any  means  of  sup- 
port for  herself  and  three  children  except  what  she  earned  by 
teaching  school  and  music,  it  did  not  make  life  harder  for  me,  for 
I  had  been  since  I  was  three  years  old  with  mother^s  youngest 
and  loveliest  sister  and  her  husband.  They  were  rich  and  pros- 
perous. They  brought  me  up  as  their  own,  and  never  had  a  child 
a  kinder  father  and  mother  or  a  more  beautiful  home  than  I  had 
with  my  uncle  and  aunt.  Besides,  I  was  naturally  a  happy  child, 
life  seemed  full  of  sunshine,  and  ever\^  day  dawned  with  promise 
of  joy  and  pleasure.  I  remember  often  saying  to  my  aunt,  whom, 
by  the  way,  I  called  mother,  ^^I  am  so  happy  I  don't  know  what 
to  do!" 

So  I  skipped  and  danced  about  among  the  lumber  in  the  sight 
of  Jacob  RUs,  till,  in  sheer  amazement,  he  cut  his  finger  off.  He 

98 


ELIZABETH  TELLS  HER  STORY 


99 


says  admiration,  not  amazement,  but  I  have  my  owii  ideas  about 
that.  I  see  him  yet  with  his  arm  in  a  sUng  and  a  defiant  look, 
making  his  way  across  the  hall  at  dancing-school  to  engage  me 
as  his  partner.  I  did  not  appreciate  the  compliment  in  the  least, 
for  I  would  a  good  deal  rather  have  had  Charles,  who  danced 
well  and  was  a  much  nicer  looking  bo}'.  Besides,  Charles's 
sister  Valgerda  had  told  me  in  confidence  how  Jacob  had  said  to 
Charles  that  he  would  marry  me  when  I  was  a  woman,  or  die. 
And  was  there  ever  such  assurance?  From  the  day  I  learned 
of  this,  I  treated  Jacob  with  all  the  coolness  and  contempt  of 
which  my  naturally  kindl}^  disposition  was  capable.  When  he 
spoke  to  me  I  answered  him  hardly  a  word,  and  took  pains  to 
show  my  preference  for  Charles  or  some  other  boy.  But  it 
seemed  to  make  no  difference  to  him. 

I  was  just  seventeen  when  I  received  my  first  love-letter  from 
Jacob.  Like  the  dutiful  fellow  he  was,  he  sent  it  through  his 
mother,  to  my  mother,  who  read  it  before  giving  it  to  me.  She 
handed  it  to  me  with  the  woids, I  need  not  tell  you  that  neither 
father  nor  I  would  ever  give  our  consent  to  an  engagement  be- 
tween 3''ou  two  till  Jacob  had  some  good  position.''  Way  down 
in  my  heart  there  was  a  small  voice  whispering :  ''Well,  if  I  loved 
him  I  wouldn't  ask  anybody."  But  the  letter  was  a  beautiful 
one,  and  after  these  many  years  1  know  that  every  word  in  it 
was  prompted  by  true,  unselfish  love.  I  cried  over  it  and  an- 
swered it  as  best  I  could,  and  then  after  a  while  forgot  about  it 
and  was  happy  as  ever  with  my  studies,  my  music,  and  plenty 
of  dances  and  parties  to  break  the  routine.  Jacob  had  gone 
away  to  America. 

Before  I  was  twenty  years  old  I  met  one  who  was  to  have  a 
great  influence  on  my  fife.  He  was  a  dashing  cavalry  officer, 
much  older  than  I,  and  a  frequent  visitor  at  our  home.  And 
here  I  must  tell  that  my  own  dear  mother  had  died  when  I  was 
fifteen  years  old,  and  my  brother  and  sister  had  come  to  live 


100 


THE  MAKING  OF  AN  AMERICAN 


with  us  in  Ribe.  There  was  house-room  and  heart-room  for  us 
all  there.  They  were  very  good  to  us,  my  uncle  and  aunt,  and 
I  loved  them  as  if  they  were  indeed  my  parents.  They  spared 
no  expense  in  our  bringing  up.  Nothing  they  gave  their  only 
son  was  too  good  for  us.  Our  home  was  a  very  beautiful  and 
happy  one. 

It  was  in  the  summer  of  1872,  that  I  met  Raymond.  That  is 
not  a  Danish  name,  but  it  was  his.  He  came  to  our  little  town 
as  next  in  command  of  a  company  of  gendarmes  —  mounted 
frontier  police.  In  the  army  he  had  served  with  my  mother's 
brother,  and  naturally  father  and  mother,  whose  hospitable 
home  welcomed  every  distinguished  stranger,  did  everything 
to  make  his  existence,  in  what  must  to  a  man  of  the  world  have 
been  a  dull  little  town,  less  lonely  than  it  would  otherwise  have 
been.  He  had  a  good  record,  had  been  brave  in  the  war,  was  the 
finest  horseman  in  all  the  country,  could  skate  and  dance  and 
talk,  and,  best  of  all,  was  known  to  be  a  good  and  loving  son  to 
his  widowed  mother,  and  greatly  beloved  by  his  comrades.  So 
he  came  into  my  life  and  singled  me  out  before  the  other  girls 
at  the  balls  and  parties  where  we  frequently  met.  Strange  as 
it  may  seem,  for  I  was  not  a  pretty  girl,  I  had  many  admirers 
among  the  young  men  in  our  town.  Perhaps  there  wasn't  really 
any  admiration  about  it ;  perhaps  it  was  just  because  we  knew 
each  other  as  boys  and  girls  and  were  brought  up  together. 
Most  of  the  young  men  in  our  town  were  college  students  who 
had  gone  to  school  in  Ribe  and  came  back  at  vacation  time  to 
renew  old  friendships  and  have  a  good  time  with  old  neighbors. 
I  danced  well,  played  the  piano  well,  and  was  full  of  hfe,  and  they 
all  liked  to  come  in  our  house,  where  there  were  plenty  of  good 
things  of  all  kinds.  So  I  really  ought  not  to  say  that  I,  who  fre- 
quently cried  over  the  length  of  my  nose,  had  admirers.  I  should 
rather  say  good  friends,  who  saw  to  it  in  their  kindness  that  I 
never  was  a  wall-flower  at  a  ball,  or  lacked  favors  at  a  cotillion. 


ELIZABETH  TELLS  HER  STORY 


101 


But  he  was  so  different.  The  others  were  young  Uke  myself. 
He  had  experience.  He  was  a  man,  handsome  and  good,  just 
such  a  man  as  would  be  likely  to  take  the  fancy  of  a  girl  of  my 
age.  And  he,  who  had  seen  so  many  girls  prettier  and  better 
than  I,  singled  me  out  of  them  all ;  and  I  —  well,  I  was  proud 
of  the  distinction,  and  I  loved  him. 

How  well  I  remember  the  clear  winter  day  when  he  and  I 
skated  and  tallced,  and  talked  and  skated,  till  the  moon  was 
high  in  the  heavens,  and  ni}^  brother  was  sent  out  to  look  for  me  ! 
I  went  home  that  evening  the  happiest  girl  in  the  world,  so  I 
thought;  for  he  had  called  me  ^'sl  beautiful  child,"  and  told  me 
that  he  loved  me.  And  father  and  mother  had  given  their  con- 
sent to  our  engagement.  Never  did  the  sun  shine  so  brightly, 
never  did  the  bells  ring  out  so  clearly  and  appealingl}^  in  the  old 
Cathedral,  and  surely  never  was  the  world  so  beautiful  as  on  the 
Sunday  morning  after  our  engagement  when  I  awoke  early  in 
my  dear  Httle  room.  Oh,  how  I  loved  the  whole  world  and 
every  one  in  it !  how  good  God  was,  how  kind  and  loving  my 
father  and  mother  and  brother  and  sisters !  How  I  w^ould  love 
to  be  good  to  every  one  around  me,  and  thus  in  a  measure  show 
my  gratitude  for  all  the  happiness  that  was  mine  ! 

So  passed  the  ^vinter  and  spring,  with  many  preparations  for 
our  new  home  and, much  planning  for  our  future  life.  In  a  town 
like  ours,  where  ever^^body  knew  all  about  everybody  else  from 
the  day  they  were  born  till  the  day  they  died,  it  was  onl}^  reason- 
able to  suppose  that  somebody  had  told  my  betrothed  about 
Jacob  Riis's  love  for  me.  I  had  hoped  that  Jacob  would  learn 
to  look  at  me  in  a  different  light,  but  from  little  messages  which 
came  to  me  off  and  on  from  the  New  World,  I  knew  that  he  was 
just  as  faithful  as  ever  to  his  idea  that  we  were  meant  for  one 
another,  and  that  '^I  might  say  him  no  time  and  time  again, 
the  day  would  come  when  I  would  change  my  mind."  But  in 
the  first  happy  days  of  our  engagement  I  confess  that  I  did  not 


102         THE  MAKING  OF  AN  AMERICAN 


think  very  much  about  him,  except  for  mentioning  him  once  or 
twice  to  my  friend  as  a  good  fellow,  but  such  a  queer  and  ob- 
stinate one,  who  some  day  would  see  plainly  that  I  was  not  half 
as  good  as  he  thought,  and  learn  to  love  some  other  girl  who  was 
much  better. 

But  one  day  there  came  a  letter  from  America,  and  so  far  was 
Jacob  from  my  thoughts  at  that  moment  that,  wlien  my  Heu- 
tenant  asked  me  from  whom  did  I  think  that  American  letter 
came,  I  answered  in  perfect  good  faith  that  I  could  not  imagine, 
unless  it  were  from  a  former  servant  of  ours  who  lived  over  there. 

'^No  servant  ever  wrote  that  address,^'  said  Raymond,  dryl3^ 
It  was  from  Jacob,  and  filled  with  good  wishes  for  us  both.  He 
listened  to  it  in  silence.  I  said  how  glad  I  was  to  find  that  at 
last  he  looked  upon  me  merely  as  a  friend.  ^'You  little  know 
how  to  read  between  the  lines,"  was  his  sober  comment.  He  was 
very  serious,  almost  sad,  it  seemed  to  me. 

In  the  early  summer  came  the  first  cloud  on  my  sunlit  sky. 
One  evening,  when  we  were  invited  to  a  party  of  young  people 
at  our  doctor's  house,  word  was  sent  from  Raymond  that  he  was 
sick  and  could  not  come,  but  that  I  must  on  no  account  stay 
home.  But  I  did.  For  me  there  was  no  pleasure  without  him, 
no,  not  anywhere  in  the  world.  He  recovered  soon,  however; 
but  after  that,  short  spells  of  illness,  mostly  heavy  colds,  were 
the  rule.  He  was  a  strong  man  and  had  taken  pride  in  being 
able  to  do  things  which  few  other  men  could  do  without  harm 
coming  to  them ;  for  instance,  to  chop  a  hole  in  the  ice  and  go 
swimming  in  mid-winter.  But  exposure  to  the  chill,  damp  air 
of  that  North  Sea  country  and  the  heavy  fogs  that  drifted  in 
from  the  ocean  at  night,  when  he  rode  alone,  often  many  miles 
over  the  moor  on  his  tours  of  inspection,  had  undermined  his 
splendid  constitution,  and  before  the  summer  was  over  the  doc- 
tors pronounced  my  dear  one  a  sufferer  from  bronchial  consump- 
tion, and  told  us  that  his  only  cliance  lay  in  his  seeking  a  mJlder 


ELIZABETH  TELLS  HER  STORY    *  103 


climate.  I  grieved  at  the  thought  of  separation  for  a  whole 
winter,  perhaps  longer,  and  at  his  suffering :  but  I  felt  sure  that 
he  w^ould  come  back  to  me  from  Switzerland  a  well  man. 

So  we  parted.  That  mnter  we  lived  in  our  letters.  The  fine 
climate  in  Montreux  seemed  to  do  him  good,  and  his  messages 
were  full  of  hope  that  all  would  be  well.  Not  so  with  my  parents. 
They  had  been  told  by  physicians  who  had  treated  Ra3'mond 
that  his  case  was  hopeless ;  that  he  might  live  years,  perhaps, 
in  Switzerland,  but  that  in  all  probability  to  return  to  Denmark 
would  be  fatal  to  him.  The}^  told  me  so,  and  I  could  not,  would 
not,  believe  them.  It  seemed  impossible  that  God  would  take 
him  away  from  me.  They  also  told  me  that  on  no  condition 
must  I  think  of  marrying  him,  because  either  I  should  be  a  widow 
soon  after  marriage,  or  else  I  should  be  a  sick-nurse  for  several 
years.  So  they  wished  me  to  break  the  engagement  while  he 
was  absent. 

This  and  much  more  was  said  to  me.  And  I,  who  had  always 
been  an  obedient  daughter  and  never  crossed  their  will  in  any 
way,  for  the  first  time  in  my  life  opposed  them  and  told  them 
that  never  should  anybody  separate  me  from  the  one  I  loved 
until  God  himself  parted  us.  Mother  reminded  me  of  my  happy 
childhood,  and  of  how  much  she  and  my  foster-father  had  done 
for  me,  and  that  n  )W  they  had  only  my  happiness  in  view  —  a 
fact  which  I  might  not  understand  till  I  was  older,  she  said,  but 
must  now  take  on  trust.  Beside  which,  Raj^mond  would  be 
made  to  feel  as  if  a  load  wore  taken  off  his  mind  if  of  my  free  will 
I  broke  our  engagement  and  left  him  free  from  any  responsibihty 
toward  me.  But  all  the  time  his  letters  told  me  that  he  loved 
me  better  than  ever,  and  I  lived  only  in  the  hope  of  his  home- 
coming. So  I  refused  to  listen  to  them.  They  wrote  to  him ; 
told  him  what  the  doctor  said  and  appealed  to  him  to  set  me  free. 
And  he,  loyal  and  good  as  he  was,  gave  me  back  my  promise. 
He  believed  he  would  get  well.    But  he  knew  he  could  not  re- 


104      *  THE  MAKING  OF  AN  AMERICAN 


turn  to  Ribe.  He  had  resigned  his  command  and  gone  back  to 
the  rank  and  pay  of  a  plain  lieutenant.  He  could  not  offer  me 
now  such  a  home  as  I  was  used  to  these  many  years ;  and  as  he 
was  so  much  older  than  I,  he  thought  it  his  duty  to  tell  me  all 
this.  And  all  the  time  he  knew,  oh,  so  well !  that  I  would  never 
leave  him,  come  what  might,  sickness,  poverty,  or  death  itself. 
I  was  bound  to  stand  by  him  to  the  last. 

That  was  a  hard  winter.  Father  and  mother,  who  could  not 
look  into  my  heart  and  see  that  I  still  loved  them  as  dearly  as 
ever  —  I  know  so  well  they  meant  it  all  for  the  best  —  called 
me  ungrateful  and  told  me  that  I  was  blind  and  would  not  see 
what  made  for  my  good,  and  that  therefore  they  must  take  their 
own  measures  for  my  happiness.  So  they  offered  me  the  choice 
between  giving  up  the  one  I  loved  or  lea\dng  the  home  that  had 
been  mine  so  long.  I  chose  the  last,  for  I  could  not  do  other- 
wise. I  packed  my  clothes  and  said  good-by  to  my  friends,  of 
whom  many  treated  me  with  coldness,  since  they,  too,  thought 
I  must  be  ungrateful  to  those  who  had  done  so  much  for  me. 
Homeless  and  alone  I  went  to  Raymond's  brother,  who  had  a  little 
country  home  near  the  city  of  Copenhagen.  With  him  and  his 
young  wife  I  stayed  until  one  day  my  Raymond  returned,  much 
better  apparently,  yet  not  the  same  as  before.  Suffering,  bodily 
and  mental,  had  left  its  traces  upon  his  face  and  frame,  but  his 
love  for  me  was  greater  than  ever,  and  he  tried  hard  to  make  up 
to  me  all  I  lost ;  as  if  I  had  really  lost  anything  in  choosing  him 
before  all  the  world. 

We  were  very  happy  at  first  in  the  jo}^  of  being  together.  But 
soon  he  suffered  a  relapse,  and  decided  to  go  to  the  hospital  for 
treatment.  He  never  left  it  again,  except  once  or  twice  for  a 
walk  with  me.  All  the  long,  beautiful  summer  days  he  spent 
in  his  room,  the  last  few  months  in  bed.  Many  friends  came  to 
see  him,  and  as  for  me,  I  spent  all  my  days  with  him,  reading 
softly  to  hi^ra  or  talking  with  him.    And  I  never  gave  up  hope 


ELIZABETH  TELLS  HER  STORY 


105 


of  his  getting  better  some  day.  He  probably  knew  that  his 
time  was  short,  but  I  think  that  he  did  not  have  the  heart  to  tell 
me.  Sometimes  he  would  say,  ^'I  wonder  whether  your  people 
would  take  you  back  to  your  home  if  I  died/'  Or,  ^'if  I  should 
die,  and  some  other  man  who  loved  you,  and  who  you  knew  was 
good  and  faithful,  should  ask  you  to  marry  him,  you  ought  to 
accept  him,  even  if  you  did  not  love  him.''  I  never  could  bear 
to  hear  it  or  to  think  of  it  then.  . 

One  raw,  dark  November  morning  I  started  on  the  long  walk 
from  his  mother's  house,  where  I  had  stayed  since  he  took  to 
his  bed,  to  go  and  spend  the  day  with  him  as  usual.  B}''  this 
time  I  was  well  acquainted  with  every  one  in  the  hospital.  The 
nurses  were  good  to  me.  They  took  off  my  shoes  and  dried  and 
warmed  them  for  me,  and  some  brought  me  afternoon  coffee, 
which  other\\dse  was  contraband  in  the  sick-rooms.  But  this 
morning  the  nurse  in  charge  of  Ra3anond's  ward  turned  her 
back  upon  me  and  pretended  not  to  hear  me  when  I  bid  her  good- 
morning.  \Vhen  I  entered  his  room,  it  was  to  find  the  lifeless 
body  of  him  who  only  a  few  hours  before  had  bidden  me  a  loving 
and  even  cheerful  good-night. 

Oh  !  the  utter  loneliness  of  those  days ;  the  longing  for  mother 
and  home !  But  no  word  came  from  Ribe  then.  Aly  dear  one 
was  laid  to  rest,  with  the  sweet,  resigned  smile  on  his  brave  face, 
and  I  stayed  for  a  while  with  his  people,  not  being  quite  able  to 
look  into  the  future.  My  father  had  meanwhile  made  provision 
for  me  at  Copenhagen.  When  I  was  able  to  think  clearlj^,  I 
went  to  the  school  in  which  my  education  had  been  '^finished" 
in  the  happy,  careless  days,  and  through  its  managers  secured 

a  position  in  Baron  von  D  's  house,  not  far  from  my  old  home, 

but  in  the  province  that  was  taken  from  Denmark  by  Germany 
the  winter  I  played  in  the  lumber-yard.  My  employers  were 
kind  to  me,  and  my  three  girl  pupils  soon  were  the  firm  friends 
of  the  quiet  little  governess  with  the  sad  face.    We  worked  hard 


106         THE  MAKING  OF  AN  AMERICAN 


together,  to  forget  if  I  could.  But  each  day  I  turned  my  face 
to  the  west  toward  Ribe,  and  my  heart  cried  out  for  my  happy 
childhood. 

At  last  mother  sent  for  me  to  come  to  them  in  the  summer 
vacation.  Oh,  how  good  it  was  to  go  home  again !  How  nice 
they  all  were,  and  what  quiet  content  I  felt,  though  I  knew  I 
should  never  forget !  The  six  weeks  went  by  Hke  a  dream.  On 
the  last  day,  as  I  was  leaving,  mother  gave  me  a  letter  from  Jacob 
Riis,  of  whom  I  had  not  thought  for  a  long  while.  It  was  a  letter 
of  proposal,  and  I  was  angry.  I  answered  it,  however,  as  nicely 
as  I  could,  and  sent  the  letter  to  his  mother.  Then  I  returned 
to  my  three  pupils  in  their  pleasant  country  home,  and  soon  we 
were  busy  with  our  studies  and  our  walks.  But  I  felt  lonelier 
than  ever,  longed  more  than  ever  for  the  days  that  had  been  and 
would  never  return.  I  could  not  sleep,  and  grew  pale  and  thin. 
And  ever  Raymond^s  words  about  a  friend,  good  and  faithful, 
who  loved  me  truly,  came  back  to  me.  Did  he  mean  Jacob, 
who  had  surely  proved  constant,  and  like  me,  had  suffered  much  ? 
He  was  lonely  and  I  was  lonely,  oh  !  so  lonely !  What  if  I  were 
to  accept  his  offer,  and  when  he  came  home  go  back  with  him 
to  his  strange  new  country  to  share  his  busy  life,  and  in  trying 
to  make  him  happy,  perhaps  find  happiness  myself?  Unless  I 
asked  him  to  come,  he  would  probably  never  return.  The 
thought  of  how  glad  it  would  make  his  parents  if  they  could  see 
him  again,  now  that  they  had  buried  two  fine  sons,  almost 
tempted  me. 

Yet  again,  it  was  too  soon,  too  soon.  I  banished  the  thought 
with  angry  impatience.  But  in  the  still  night  watches  it  came 
and  knocked  again.  Jacob  need  not  come  home  just  now.  We 
might  write  and  get  acquainted,  and  get  used  to  the  idea  of  each 
other,  and  his  old  people  could  look  forward  to  the  joy  of  having 
him  return  in  a  yesiY  or  two. 

At  last,  one  night,  I  got  up  at  two  o'clock,  sat  down  at  my 


ELIZABETH  TELLS  HER  STORY 


107 


desk,  and  wrote  to  him  in  perfect  sincerity  all  that  was  in  my 
mind  concerning  him,  and  that  if  he  still  would  have  me,  I  was 
willing  to  go  v/ith  him  to  America  if  he  would  come  for  me  some- 
time. Strange  to  say,  Jacob's  mother  had  never  sent  the  letter 
in  which  I  refused  him  a  second  time.  Perhaps  she  thought  his 
constancy  and  great  love  would  at  last  touch  my  heart,  longing 
as  it  was  for  somebody  to  cling  to.  So  that  he  got  my  last  letter 
first.  But  instead  of  waiting  several  years,  he  came  in  a  few 
weeks.    He  was  always  that  way. 

And  now,  after  twenty-five  happy  years  

Elisabeth.^ 

I  cut  the  rest  of  it  off,  because  I  am  the  editor  and  want  to 
begin  again  here  myself,  and  what  is  the  use  of  being  an  editor 
unless  you  can  cut  ^^copy"?  Also,  it  is  not  good  for  woman  to 
allow  her  to  say  too  much.  She  has  already  said  too  much  about 
that  letter.  I  have  got  it  in  my  pocket,  and  I  guess  I  ought  to 
know.  ''Your  own  Elisabeth"  —  was  not  that  enough?  For 
him,  with  his  poor,  saddened  life,  peace  be  to  its  memory !  He 
loved  her.    That  covers  all.    How  could  he  help  it? 

If  they  did  not  think  I  had  lost  my  senses  before,  they  as- 
suredly did  when  that  telegram  reached  Ribe.  Talk  about  the 
privacy  of  the  mails  .(the  telegraph  is  part  of  the  post-office 
machinery  there),  official  propriety,  and  all  that  —  why,  I  don't 
suppose  that  telegraph  operator  could  get  his  coat  on  quick 
enough  to  go  out  and  tel)  the  amazing  news.  It  would  not  have 
been  human  nature,  certainly  not  Ribe  human  nature.  Before 
sundown  it  was  all  over  town  that  Jacob  Riis  was  coming  home, 
and  coming  for  Elisab'eth.  Poor  girl !  It  was  in  the  Christmas 
holidays,  and  she  was  visiting  there.    She  had  been  debating 

^  That  is  right.  Up  to  this  the  printer  has  had  his  way.  Now  we 
will  have  ours,  she  aud  I,  and  spell  her  name  properly.  Together  we  shall 
manage  him. 


108         THE  MAKING  OF  AN  AMERICAN 


in  her  own  mind  whether  to  tell  her  mother,  and  how ;  but  they 
left  her  precious  little  time  for  debate.  In  a  neighborhood 
gathering  that  night  one  stern,  uncompromising  dowager  trans- 
fixed her  with  avenging  eye. 

'^They  say  Jacob  Riis  is  coming  home,"  she  observed.  Elisa- 
beth knitted  away  furiously,  her  cheeks  turning  pink  for  all  she 
made  believe  she  did  not  hear. 

"They  say  he  is  coming  back  to  propose  to  a  certain  young 
lady  again,"  continued  the  dowager,  pitilessly,  her  voice  rising. 
There  was  the  stillness  of  death  in  the  room.  Elisabeth  dropped 
a  stitch,  tried  to  pick  it  up,  failed,  and  fled.  Her  mother  from 
her  seat  observed  with  never-failing  dignity  that  it  blew  like  to 
bring  on  a  flood.  You  could  almost  hear  the  big  cathedral  bell 
singing  in  the  tower.    And  the  subject  was  changed. 

But  I  will  warrant  that  Ribe  got  no  wink  of  sleep  that  night, 
the  while  I  fumed  in  a  wayside  Holstein  inn.  In  my  wild  rush 
to  get  home  I  had  taken  the  wrong  train  from  Hamburg,  or  for- 
got to  change,  or  something.  I  don't  to  this  day  know  what.  I 
know  that  night  coming  on  found  me  stranded  in  a  little  town 
I  had  never  heard  of,  on  a  spur  of  the  road  I  didn't  kno' existed, 
and  there  I  had  to  sta}^,  raging  at  the  railroad,  at  the  inn,  at 
everything.  In  the  middle  of  the  night,  while  I  was  tossing  sleep- 
less on  the  big  four-poster  bed,  a  drunken  man  who  had  gone 
wrong  fell  into  my  room  with  the  door  and  a  candle.  That  man 
was  my  friend.  I  got  up  and  kicked  him  out,  called  the  landlord 
and  blew  him  up,  and  felt  much  better.  The  sun  had  not  risen 
when  I  was  posting  back  to  the  junction,  counting  the  mile-posts 
as  we  sped,  watch  in  hand. 

If  mother  thought  we  had  all  gone  mad  together,  there  was 
certainly  something  to  excuse  her.  Here  she  had  only  a  few 
weeks  before  forwarded  with  a  heavy  heart  to  her  son  in  America 
Elisabeth's  flat  refusal  to  hear  him,  and  when  she  expected  gloom 
and  despair,  all  at  once  his  letters  overflowed  with  a  hysterica) 


ELIZABETH  TELLS  HER  STORY  109 


happiness  that  could  only  hail  from  a  disordered  mind.  To  cap 
it  all,  Christmas  Eve  brought  her  the  shock  of  her  life.  Elisa- 
beth, sitting  near  her  in  the  old  church  and  remorsefully  watch- 
ing her  weep  for  her  buried  boys,  could  not  resist  the  impulse  to 
steal  up  behind,  as  they  were  going  out,  and  whisper  into  her  ear, 
as  she  gave  her  a  little  vicarious  hug :  '^I  have  had  news  from 
Jacob.  He  is  very  happy.''  The  look  of  measureless  astonish- 
ment on  my  mother's  face,  as  she  turned,  recalled  to  her  that  she 
could  not  know,  and  she  hurried  away,  while  mother  stood  and 
looked  after  her,  for  the  first  time  in  her  life,  I  verily  believe, 
thinking  hard  things  of  a  fellow-being  —  and  of  her !  Oh, 
mother !  could  you  but  have  known  that  that  hug  was  for  your 
boy! 

Counting  hours  no  longer,  but  minutes,  till  I  should  claim  it 
myself,  I  sat  straining  my  eyes  in  the  dark  for  the  first  glimmer 
of  lights  in  the  old  town,  when  my  train  pulled  up  at  a  station  a 
dozen  miles  from  home.  The  guard  ran  along  and  threw  open 
the  doors  of  the  compartments.    I  heard  voices  and  the  cry :  — 

^'This  way,  Herr  Doctor!  There  is  room  in  here,"  and  upon 
the  step  loomed  the  tall  form  of  our  old  family  physician.  As  I 
started  up  with  a  cry  of  recognition,  he  settled  into  a  seat  with  a 
contented  — 

''Here,  Overlae^er,  is  one  for  you,"  and  I  was  face  to  face  with 
my  father,  grown  very  old  and  white.  My  heart  smote  me  at 
the  sight  of  his  venerable  head. 

''Father!"  I  cried,  and  reached  out  for  him.  I  think  he 
thought  he  saw  a  ghost.  He  stood  quite  still,  steadying  himself 
against  the  door,  and  his  face  grew  very  pale.  It  was  the  doc- 
tor, ever  the  most  jovial  of  men,  who  first  recovered  himself. 

"Bless  my  soul !"  he  cried,  "bless  my  soul  if  here  is  not  Jacob, 
come  back  from  the  wilds  as  large  as  life !  Welcome  home, 
boy!"  and  we  laughed  and  shook  hands.  They  had  been  out 
to  see  a  friend  in  the  country  and  had  happened  upon  my  train. 


110         THE  MAKING  OF  AX  AMERICAN 


At  the  door  of  our  house,  father,  who  had  picked  up  two  of 
my  brothers  at  the  depot,  halted  and  thought. 

'^Better  let  me  go  m  first,"  he  said,  and,  being  a  small  man, 
put  the  door  of  the  dining-room  between  me  and  mother,  so  that 
she  could  not  see  me  right  away. 

''\A'Tiat  do  you  think  — he  began,  but  his  voice  shook  so  that 
mother  rose  to  her  feet  at  once.    How  do  mothers  know? 

^' Jacob!"  she  cried,  and,  pushing  past  him,  had  me  in  her 
embrace. 

That  was  a  happy  tea-table.  If  mother's  tears  fell  as  she  told 
of  my  brothers,  the  sting  was  taken  out  of  her  grief.  Perhaps  it 
was  never  there.  To  her  there  is  no  death  of  her  dear  ones,  but 
rejoicing  in  the  midst  of  human  sorrow  that  they  have  gone 
home  where  she  shall  find  them  again.  If  ever  a  doubt  had  arisen 
in  my  mind  of  that  home,  how  could  it  linger?  How  could  I 
betray  my  mother's  faith,  or  question  it? 

Perfecth^  happy  were  we;  but  when  the  tea-things  were  re- 
moved ^nd  I  began  to  look  restlessly  at  my  watch  and  talk  of  an 
errand  I  must  go,  a  shadow  of  anxiety  came  into  my  father's 
eyes.  Mother  looked  at  me  with  mute  appeal.  They  were  still 
as  far  from  the  truth  as  ever.  A  wild  notion  that  I  had  come  for 
some  other  man's  daughter  had  entered  their  minds,  or  else,  God 
help  me,  that  I  had  lost  mine.  I  kissed  mother  and  quieted  her 
fears. 

^^I  will  tell  you  when  I  come  back ; ''  and  when  she  would  have 
sent  my  brothers  with  me :  '^No !  this  walk  I  must  take  alone. 
Thank  Gr.dfor  it." 

So  I  went  over  the  river,  over  the  Long  Bridge  where  I  first 
met  Her,  and  from  the  arch  of  which  I  hailed  the  light  in  her 
window,  the  beacon  that  had  beckoned  me  all  the  years  while 
two  oceans  surged  between  us  ;  under  the  wild-rose  hedge  where 
I  had  dreamed  of  her  as  a  boy,  and  presently  I  stood  upon  the 
broad  stone  steps  of  her  father's  house,  and  rang  the  bell. 


ELIZABETH  TELLS  HER  STORY 


111 


An  old  servant  opened  the  door,  and,  with  a  grave  nod  of  recog- 
nition, showed  me  into  the  room  to  the  left,  —  the  very  one  where 
I  had  taken  leave  of  her  six  years  before,  —  then  went  unasked 
to  call  '^Miss  Elisabeth."  It  was  New  Year's  Eve,  and  they 
were  having  a  card  party  in  the  parlor. 

"Oh,  it  isn't  — ?"  said  she,  with  her  heart  in  her  mouth,  paus- 
ing on  the  threshold  and  looking  appealingly  at  the  maid.  It  was 
the  same  who  years  before  had -told  her  how  I  kept  vigil  under 
her  window. 

^^Yes !  it  is  !"  she  said,  mercilessly,  ''it's  him,"  and  she  pushed 
her  in. 

I  think  it  was  I  who  spoke  first. 

"Do  you  remember  when  the  ice  broke  on  the  big  ditch  and 
I  had  you  in  my  arms,  so,  lifting  you  over?" 

"Was  I  heavy she  asked,  irrelevantly,  and  we  both  laughed. 

Father's  reading-lamp  shone  upon  the  open  Bible  when  I  re- 
turned. He  w^ped  his  spectacles  and  looked  up  with  a  patiently 
questioning  "Well,  my  boy?"  Mother  laid  her  hand  upon 
mine. 

"I  came  home,"  I  said  unsteadily,  "to  give  you  Elisabeth  for 
a  daughter.    She  has  promised  to  be  my  wife." 

Mother  clung  to  me  and  wept.  Father  turned  the  leaves  of 
the  book  with  hands  that  trembled  in  spite  of  himself,  and 
read :  — 

"Not  unto  us,  0  Lord,  not  unto  us,  but  unto  Thy  name  give 
glory  for  Thy  mercy — " 
His  voice  faltered  and  broke. 

The  old  town  turned  out,  to  the  last  man  and  woman,  and 
crowded  the  Domkirke  on  that  March  day,  twenty-five  years 
ago  when  I  bore  Her  home  my  bride.  From  earliest  morning 
the  street  that  led  to  "the  Castle"  had  seen  a  strange  procession 
of  poor  and  aged  women  pass,  carrying  flowers  grown  in  window- 


112         THE  MAKING  OF  AN  AMERICAN 


gardens  in  the  scant  sunlight  of  the  long  Northern  winter  — 
'4oved  up/'  they  say  in  Danish  for  grown" ;  in  no  other  way 
could  it  be  done.  They  were  pensioners  on  her  mother's  bounty, 
bringing  their  gifts  to  the  friend  who  was  going  away.  And  it 
was  their  flowers  she  wore  when  I  led  her  down  the  church  aisle 
my  wife,  my  own. 

The  Castle  opened  its  doors  hospitably  at  last  to  the  carpen- 
ter's lad.  When  they  fell  to  behind  us,  with  father,  mother, 
and  friends  waving  tearful  good-bys  from  the  steps,  and  the 
wheels  of  the  mail-coach  rattled  over  the  cobblestones  of  the 
silent  streets  where  old  neighbors  had  set  lights  in  their  windows 
to  cheer  us  on  the  way,  —  out  into  the  open  country,  into  the 
wide  world,  —  our  life's  journey  had  begun.  Looking  stead- 
fastly ahead,  over  the  bleak  moor  into  the  unknown  beyond,  I 
knew  in  my  soul  that  I  should  conquer.  For  her  head  was  lean- 
ing trustfully  on  my  shoulder  and  her  hand  was  in  mine ;  and  all 
was  well. 


CHAPTER  VIII 


Early  IMarried  Life  ;  I  Become  ax  Advertising  Bureau  ; 

ox  THE  ^'TrIBUXE'' 

It  was  no  easy  life  to  which  I  brought  home  my  young  wife. 
I  felt  it  often  with  a  secret  pang  when  I  thought  how  few  friends  I 
had  to  offer  her  for  those  she  had  left,  and  how  very  different  was 
the  whole  setting  of  her  new  home.  At  such  times  I  set  my  teeth 
hard  and  promised  myself  that  some  day  she  should  have  the 
best  in  the  land.  She  never  with  word  or  look  betraj^ed  if  she, 
too,  felt  the  pang.  We  were  comrades  for  better  or  worse  from 
the  day  she  put  her  hand  in  mine,  and  never  was  there  a  more 
loyal  and  faithful  one.  If,  when  in  the  twilight  she  played  softly 
to  herself  the  old  airs  from  home,  the  tune  was  smothered  in  a  sob 
that  was  not  for  my  ear,  and  shortly  our  kitchen  resounded  with 
the  most  tremendo  usly  energetic  housekeeping  on  record,  I  did 
not  hear.  I  had  drunk  that  cup  to  the  dregs,  and  I  knew.  I 
just  put  on  a  gingham  apron  and  turned  in  to  help  her.  Two 
can  battle  wdth  a  fit  of  homesickness  much  better  than  one,  even 
if  never  a  word  is  said  about  it.  And  it  can  very  rarely  resist  a 
man  with  an  apron  on.    I  suppose  he  looks  too  ridiculous. 

Besides,  housekeeping  in  double  harness  was  a  vastly  different 
matter  from  going  it  single.  Not  that  it  was  plain  sailing  by  any 
manner  of  means.  Neither  of  us  knew  anything  about  it ;  but 
we  were  there  to  find  out,  and  exploring  together  was  fine  fun. 
We  started  fair  by  laying  in  a  stock  of  everything  there  was  in 
I  113 


114         THE  MAKING  OF  AN  AMERICAN 


the  cook-book  and  in  the  grocery,  from  '^mace/'  which  neither 
of  us  knew  what  was,  to  the  prunes  which  we  never  got  a  chance 
to  cook  because  we  ate  them  all  up  together  before  we  could  find 
a  place  where  they  fitted  in.  The  deep  councils  we  held  over 
the  disposal  of  those  things,  and  the  strange  results  which  fol- 
lowed sometimes !  Certain  rocks  we  were  able  to  steer  clear  of, 
because  I  had  carefully  charted  them  in  the  days  of  my  bachelor- 
hood. In  the  matter  of  sago,  for  instance,  which  swells  so  when 
cooked.  You  would  never  believe  it.  But  there  were  plenty 
of  unknown  reefs.  I  mind  our  first  chicken.  I  cannot  to  this 
day  imagine  what  was  the  matter  with  that  strange  bird.  I  was 
compelled  to  be  at  the  office  that  afternoon,  but  I  sent  my 
grinning  ^^de\dr'  up  to  the  house  every  half -hour  for  bulletins  as 
to  how  it  was  getting  on.  When  I  came  home  in  the  gloaming  it 
was  sizzling  yet,  and  my  wife  was  regarding  it  with  a  strained 
look  and  with  cheeks  which  the  fire  had  dyed  a  most  lovely  red. 
I  can  see  her  now.  She  was  just  too  charming  for  anything. 
With  the  chicken  something  was  wrong.  As  I  said,  I  don't 
know  what  it  was,  and  I  don^t  care.  The  skin  was  all  drawn 
tight  over  the  bones  Uke  the  covering  on  an  umbreha  frame, 
and  there  was  no  end  of  fat  in  the  pan  that  we  didn't  know  what 
to  do  mth.  But  our  supper  of  bread  and  cheese  that  night  was 
a  meal  fit  for  a  king.  My  mother,  who  was  a  notable  cook, 
never  made  one  so  fine.  It  is  all  stuff  about  mothers  doing 
those  things  better.  Who  cares,  anyhow?  Have  mothers  curls 
of  gold  and  long  eyelashes,  and  have  they  arch  ways?  And  do 
they  pouu,  and  have  pet  names  ?  Well,  then,  are  not  these  of  the 
very  essence  of  cookery,  all  the  dry  books  to  the  contrary  not- 
withstanding? Some  day  some  one  will  publish  a  real  cook- 
book for  young  housekeepers,  but  it  will  be  a  wise  husband  with 
the  proper  sense  of  things,  not  a  motherly  person  at  all,  who  will 
write  it.  They  make  things  that  are  good  enough  to  eat,  but 
that  is  not  tjie  best  part  of  cooking  by  long  odds. 


EARLY  MARRIED  LIFE 


115 


There  is  one  housekeeping  feat  of  which  EUsabeth  says  she  is 
ashamed  yet.  I  am  not.  I'll  bet  it  was  fine.  It  was  that  cake 
we  took  so  much  trouble  vnth.  The  yeast  went  in  all  right,  but 
something  else  went  wrong.  It  was  not  put  to  soak,  or  to  sizzle, 
in  the  oven,  or  whatever  it  was.  Like  my  single-blessed  pan- 
cake, it  did  not  rise,  and  in  the  darkness  before  I  came  home  she 
smuggled  it  out  of  the  house ;  only  to  behold,  wdth  a  mortification 
that  endures  to  this  day,  the  neighbor-woman  who  had  taken 
such  an  interest  in  our  young  housekeeping,  examining  it  care- 
fully in  the  ash-barrel  next  morning.  People  are  curious.  But 
they  were  welcome  to  all  they  could  spy  out  concerning  our 
household.  They  discovered  there,  if  they  looked  right,  the 
sweetest  and  altogether  the  bravest  Httle  housekeeper  in  all  the 
world.  And  what  does  a  cake  matter,  or  a  hen,  or  twenty,  when 
only  the  housekeeper  is  riglit? 

In  my  editorial  enthusiasm  for  the  new  plan  there  was  no 
doubtful  note.  The  ''beats"  got  a  rest  for  a  season  while  I 
transferred  my  attention  to  the  boarding-house.  Aly  ^dfe 
teases  me  yet  with  those  mighty  onslaughts  on  the  new  enemy. 
Having  clearly  made  him  out  by  the  light  of  our  evening  lamp, 
I  went  for  him  with  might  and  main,  detennined  to  leave  no 
boarding-house  through  the  length  and  breadth  of  the  land,  or 
at  least  of  South  Brookh^n.  ''Ours/'  I  cried,  weekly,  "to  fulfil 
its  destiny,  must  be  a  nation  of  homes.  Dowtl  with  the  boarding- 
house!"  and  the  politicians  applauded.  They  were  glad  to  be 
let  alone.  So  were  the  heats  who  were  behind  in  their  bills,  and 
whose  champion  I  had  unexpectedly  become.  A  doughty 
champion,  too,  a  walking  advertisement  of  my  own  prescription  ; 
for  I  grew  fat  and  strong,  whereas  I  had  been  lean  and  poor.  I 
was  happy,  that  was  it ;  very,  very  happy,  and  full  of  faith  in 
our  ability  to  fight  our  way  through,  come  what  might.  Xor 
did  it  require  the  gift  of  a  prophet  to  make  out  that  trying  days 
were  coming;  for  my  position,  again  as  the  paid  editor  of  my 


116 


THE  MAKING  OF  AN  AMERICAN 


once  ''owners/^  the  politicians,  was  rapidly  becoming  untenable. 
It  was  an  agreement  entered  into  temporarily.  When  it  should 
lapse,  what  then?  I  had  pledged  myself  when  I  sold  the  paper 
not  to  start  another  for  ten  years  in  South  Brooklyn.  So  I 
would  have  to  begin  life  over  again  in  a  new  place.  I  gave  the 
matter  but  little  thought.  I  suppose  the  old  folks,  viewing  it  all 
from  over  there,  thought  it  trifling  with  fate.  It  was  not.  It 
was  a  trumpet  challenge  to  it  to  come  on,  all  that  could  crowd  in. 
Two,  we  would  beat  the  world. 

Before  I  record  the  onset  that  ensued,  I  must  stop  to  tell  of 
another  fight,  one  which  in  my  soul  I  regret,  though  it  makes  me 
laugh  even  now.  Nonresistance  never  appealed  to  me  except 
in  the  evil  doer  who  has  been  knocked  down  for  cause.  I  suppose 
it  is  wicked,  but  I  promised  to  tell  the  truth,  and  —  I  always  did 
like  Peter  for  knocking  off  the  ear  of  the  high  priest ^s  servant.  If 
only  it  had  been  the  high  priest's  own  ear !  And  so  when  the  Rev. 
Mr.  —  no,  I  will  not  mention  names ;  he  was  Brother  Simmons's 
successor,  that  is  what  grieves  me  —  when  he  found  fault  with 
the  News  for  being  on  sale  Sundays,  if  I  remember  rightly,  and 
preached  about  it,  announcing  that  never  in  the  most  anxious 
days  of  the  war  had  he  looked  in  a  newspaper  on  the  Sabbath" ; 
and  when  ill  luck  would  have  it  th,at  on  the  same  Sunday  I  beheld 
his  Reverence,  who  was  a  choleric  man,  hotly  stoning  a  neighbor's 
hen  from  his  garden^  I  drew  editorial  parallels  which  were  not 

soothing  to  the  reverend  temper.  What  really  ailed  Mr.  was 

that  he  was  lacking  in  common  sense,  or  he  would  never  have 
called  upon  me  with  his  whole  board  of  deacons  in  the  quiet  of  the 
Sunday  noon,  right  after  church,  to  demand  a  retraction.  I 
have  no  hope  that  a  sense  of  the  humor  of  the  thing  found  its  way 
into  the  clerical  consciousness  when  I  replied  that  I  never  in  the 
most  exciting  times  transacted  business  on  Sunday ;  for  if  it  had, 
we  would  have  been  friends  for  Hfe.  But  I  know  that  it  ^'struck 
in"  in  the  case  of  the  deacons.    They  went  out  struggling  with 


EARLY  MARRIED  LIFE 


117 


their  mirth  behind  their  pastor back.  I  think  he  restrained 
himself  with  difficulty  from  pronouncing  the  major  excommuni- 
cation against  me,  \vith  bell,  book,  and  candle,  then  and  there. 

About  that  time  I  saw  advertised  for  sale  a  stereopticon  outfit, 
and  bought  it  without  any  definite  idea  of  what  to  do  with  it.  I 
suppose  it  ought  to  be  set  down  as  foolishness  and  a  waste  of 
money.  And  yet  it  was  to  play  an  important  part  in  the  real 
life-work  that  was  waiting  for  me.  Without  the  knowledge 
which  tlie  possession  of  it  gave  me,  that  work  could  not  have 
been  carried  out  as  it  was.  That  is  not  to  say  that  I  recommend 
every  man  to  have  a  magic  lantern  in  his  cellar,  or  the  promis- 
cuous purchase  of  all  sorts  of  useless  things  as  though  the  world 
were  a  kind  of  providential  rummage  sale.  I  should  rather  sslj 
that  no  effort  to  in  any  way  add  to  one's  stock  of  knowledge  is 
likely  to  come  amiss  in  this  w^orld  of  changes  and  emergencies, 
and  that  Providence  has  a  way  of  ranging  itself  on  the  side  of  the 
man  with  the  strongest  battalions  of  resources  when  the  emer- 
gency does  come.  In  other  words,  that  to  ''trust  God  and  keep 
your  powder  dry"  is  the  plan  for  all  time. 

The  process  of  keeping  mine  dry  came  near  blowing  up  the 
house.  My  two  friends,  Mackellar  and  Wells,  took  a  sympa- 
thetic interest  in  the  lantern  proceedings,  which  was  w^U, 
because,  being  a  drii.ggist,  Wells  knew  about  making  the  gas 
and  could  prevent  trouble  on  that  tack.  It  was  before  the  day 
of  charged  tanks.  The  gas  we  made  was  contained  in  wedge- 
shaped  rubber  bags,  in  a  frame  with  weights  on  top  that  gave  the 
necessary  pressure.  Mackellar  volunteered  to  be  the  weight, 
and  sat  on  the  bags,  at  our  first  seance,  while  Wells  superin- 
tended the  gas  and  I  read  the  written  directions.  We  were 
getting  along  nicely  when  I  came  to  a  place  enjoining  great 
caution  in  the  distribution  of  the  weight.  ''You  are  working,'^ 
read  the  text,  "with  tvv^o  gases  which,  if  allowed  to  mix  in  undue 
proportion,  have  the  force  and  all  the  destructive  power  of  a 


118         THE  MAKING  OF  AX  AMERICAN 


bombshell."  Mackellar,  all  ear,  from  fidgeting  fell  into  a  tremble 
on  his  perch.  He  had  not  dreamed  of  this ;  neither  had  we.  I 
steadied  him  with  an  imperative  gesture. 

^'Sit  still,"  I  commanded.    ''Listen !    'If,  by  any  wabbling  of 
.  the  rack,  the  pressure  were  to  be  suddenly  relieved,  the  gas  from 
!  one  bag  might  be  sucked  into  the  other,  with  the  result  of  a 
i  disastrous  explosion.' " 

We  stood  regarding  each  other  in  dumb  horror.  Mackellar 
was  deathly  pale. 

"  Let  me  off,  boys,"  he  pleaded  faintly.  "  I've  got  to  go  to  the 
station  to  turn  out  the  men."  He  made  a  motion  to  climb 
down. 

Wells  had  snatched  the  book  from  me.  "Jack!  for  your  life 
don't  move !"  he  cried,  and  pointed  to  the  next  paragraph  in  the 
directions :  — 

"Such  a  thing  has  happened  when  the  frame  has  been  upset, 
or  the  weight  in  some  other  way  suddenly  shifted." 

Mac  sat  as  if  frozen  to  stone.  Ed  and  I  sneaked  out  of  the 
back  door  on  tiptoe  to  make  for  downstairs,  three  steps  at  a  time. 
In  less  time  than  it  takes  to  tell  it  we  were  back,  ea<?h  with,  an 
armful  of  paving-stones,  which  we  piled  up  beside  our  agonized 
comrade,  assuring  him  volubly  that  there  was  no  danger  if  he 
would  only  sit  still,  still  as  a  mouse,  till  we  came  back.  Then  we 
were  off  again.  The  third  trip  gave  us  stones  enough,  and  with 
infinite  care  we  piled  them,  one  after  another,  upon  the  rack  as 
the  Captain  eased  up,  until  at  last  he  stood  upon  the  floor,  a 
freed  Lad  saved  man.  It  was  only  then  that  it  occurred  to  us 
that  we  might  have  turned  off  the  gas  in  the  first  place,  and  so 
saved  ourselves  all  our  anguish  and  toil. 

I  can  say  honestly  that  I  tried  the  best  I  knew  how  to  get 
along  with  the  politicians  I  served,  but  in  the  long  run  it  simply 
could  not  be  done.  They  treated  me  fairly,  bearing  no  grudges. 
But  it  is  one  thing  to  run  an  independent  newspaper,  quite 


EARLY  MARRIED  LIFE 


119 


another  to  edit  an  ''organ."  And  there  is  no  deceiving  the 
pubUc.  Not  that  I  tried.  Indeed,  if  anything,  the  shoe  was  on 
the  other  foot.  We  parted  compan}^  eventually  to  our  mutual 
relief,  and  quite  unexpectedly  I  found  my  lantern  turning  the 
bread-winner  of  the  family.  The  notion  of  using  it  as  a  means 
of  advertising  had  long  allured  me.  There  was  a  large  population 
out  on  Long  Island  that  traded  in  Brooklyn  stores  and  could  be 
reached  in  that  way.  In  fact,  it  proved  to  be  so.  I  made  money 
that  fall  travelling  through  the  tow^ns  and  villages  and  giving 
open-air  exhibitions  in  which  the  ^'ads"  of  Brooklyn  merchants 
were  cunningly  interlarded  with  very  beautiful  colored  views, 
of  which  I  had  a  fine  collection.  When  the  season  was  too  far 
advanced  to  allow  of  this,  I  established  m3^self  in  a  window  at 
Myrtle  Avenue  and  Fulton  Street  and  appealed  to  the  city 
crowds  with  my  pictures.  So  I  filled  in  a  gap  of  several  months, 
while  our  people  on  the  other  side  crossed  themselves  at  my 
having  turned  street  fakir.  At  least  we  got  that  impression 
from  their  letters.  They  were  not  to  blame.  That  is  their  w^a}^ 
of  looking  at  things.  A  chief  reason  why  I  liked  this  country 
from  the  very  beginning  was  that  it  made  no  difference  what  a 
man  was  doing,  so  long  as  it  was  some  honest,  decent  work.  I 
liked  my  advertising  scheme.  I  advertised  nothing  I  would  not 
have  sold  the  people'  myself,  and  I  gave  it  to  them  in  a  way  that 
was  distinctly  pleasing  and  good  for  them  ;  for  my  pictures  were 
real  work  of  art,  not  the  cheap  trash  you  see  nowadays  on  street 
screens. 

The  city  crowds  were  always  appreciative.  In  the  country 
the  hoodlums  made  trouble  occasionally.  We  talk  a  gi'eat  deal 
about  city  toughs.  In  nine  cases  out  of  ten  they  are  lads  of 
normal  impulses  whose  resources  have  all  been  smothered  by  the 
slum ;  of  whom  the  street  and  its  lawlessness,  and  the  tenement 
that  is  without  a  home,  have  made  ruffians.  With  better 
opportunities  they  might  have  been  heroes.    The  country 


120 


THE  MAKING  OF  AN  AMERICAN 


hoodlum  is  oftener  what  he  is  because  his  bent  is  that  way, 
though  he,  too,  is  not  rarely  driven  into  mischief  by  the  utter 
poverty  —  aesthetically  I  mean  —  of  his  environment.  Hence 
he  shows  off  in  his  isolation  so  much  worse  than  his  city  brother. 
It  is  no  argument  for  the  slum.  It  makes  toughs,  whereas  the 
other  is  one  in  spite  of  his  country  home.  That  is  to  say,  if  the 
latter  is  really  a  home.  There  is  only  one  cure  then  —  an 
almighty  thrashing. 

There  ought  to  be  some  ex-hoodlums  left  in  Flushing  to  echo 
that  sentiment,  even  after  a  quarter  of  a  century.  From  certain 
signs  I  knew,  when  I  hung  my  curtain  between  two  trees  in  the 
little  public  park  down  by  the  fountain  with  the  goldfish,  that 
there  was  going  to  be  trouble.  My  patience  had  been  pretty 
well  worn  down,  and  I  made  preparations.  I  hired  four  stout 
men  who  were  spoiling  for  a  fight,  and  put  good  hickory  clubs 
into  their  hands,  bidding  them  restrain  their  natural  desire  to 
use  them  till  the  time  came.  My  forebodings  were  not  vain. 
.Potatoes,  turnips,  and  eggs  flew,  not  only  at  the  curtain,  but  at 
the  lantern  and  me.  I  stood  it  until  the  Castle  of  Heidelberg, 
which  was  one  of  my  most  beautiful  colored  views,  was  rent  in 
twain  by  a  rock  that  went  clear  through  the  curtain.  Then  I 
gave  the  word.  In  a  trice  the  apparatus  was  gathered  up  and 
thrown  into  a  wagon  that  was  waiting,  the  horses  headed  for 
Jamaica.  We  made  one  dash  into  the  crowd,  and  a  wail  arose 
from  the  bruised  and  bleeding  hoodlums  that  hung  over  the  town 
like  a  nightmare,  while  we  galloped  out  of  it,  followed  by  cries 
of  rage  and  a  mob  with  rocks  and  clubs.  But  we  had  the  best 
team  in  town,  and  soon  lost  them. 

Vengeance  ?  No !  Of  course  there  was  the  ruined  curtain  and 
those  eggs  to  be  settled  for ;  but,  on  the  whole,  I  think  we  were 
a  kind  of  village  improvement  society  for  the  occasion,  though 
we  did  not  stay  to  wait  for  a  vote  of  thanks.  I  am  sure  it  was 
our  due  a^l  the  same. 


EARLY  MARRIED  LIFE 


121 


Along  in  the  summer  of  1877  Wells  and  I  hatched  out  a  scheme 
of  country  advertising  on  a  larger  scale,  of  which  the  lantern  was 
to  be  the  vehicle.  We  \\  -^re  to  publish  a  directory  of  the  city  of 
Elmira.  How  we  cam?  i-^  select  that  city  I  have  forgotten,  but 
the  upshot  of  that  latest  of  my  business  ventures  I  am  not  likely 
to  forget  soon.  Our  plan  was  to  boom  the  advertising  end  of 
the  enterprise  by  a  nightly  street  display  in  the  interest  of  our 
patrons.  We  had  barely  got  into  town  when  the  railroad 
strikes  of  that  memorable  summer  reached  Elmira.  There 
had  been  dreadful  trouble,  fire  and  bloodshed,  in  Pennsylvania, 
and  the  citizens  took  steps  at  once  to  preserve  the  peace.  A 
regiment  of  deputy  sheriffs  were  sworn  in,  and  the  town  was  put 
under  semi-martial  law.  Indeed,  soldiers  with  fixed  bayonets 
guarded  every  train  and  car  that  went  over  the  bridge  between 
the  business  section  of  the  town  and  the  railroad  shops  across  the 
Chemung  River. 

Our  ill  luck  —  or  good ;  when  a  thing  comes  upon  you  so 
unexpectedly  as  did  that,  I  am  rather  disposed  to  consider  it  a 
stroke  of  good  fortune,  however  disguised  —  would  have  it  that 
the  building  we  had  chosen  to  hang  our  curtain  on  was  right  at 
the  end  of  this  bridge  which  seemed  to  be  the  danger  point. 
From  the  other  end  the  strikers  looked  across  the  river,  hourly 
expected  to  make  a  movement  of  some  kind,  exactly  what  I  don't 
know.  I  know  that  the  whole  city  was  on  pins  and  needles 
about  it,  while  we,  all  unconscious  that  we,  were  the  object  of 
sharp  scrutiny,  were  vainly  trying  to  string  our  sixteen-foot 
curtain.  There  was  a  high  wind  that  blew  it  out  over  the  river 
despite  all  our  efforts  to  catch  and  ho^d  it.  Twice  it  escaped  our 
grasp.  We  could  see  a  crowd  of  strikers  watching  us  on  the 
other  side.  The  deputies  who  held  our  end  of  the  bridge  saw 
them  too.  We  were  strangers ;  came  from  no  one  knew  where. 
They  must  have  concluded  that  we  were  in  league  with  the 
enemy  and  signalling  to  him.    When  for  the  third  time  our  big 


122         THE  MAKING  OF  AN  AMERICAN 


white  flag  was  wafted  toward  the  shops,  a  committee  of  citizens 
came  up  from  the  street  and  let  us  know  in  as  few  words  as 
possible  that  any  other  place  would  be  healthier  for  us  just  then 
than  Elmira. 

In  vain  we  protested  that  we  were  noncombatants  and  en- 
gaged in  peaceful  industry.  The  committee  pointed  to  the  flag 
and  to  the  crowd  at  the  farther  end  of  the  bridge.  They  eyed 
our  preparations  for  making  gas  askance,  and  politely  but  firmly 
insisted  that  the  next  train  out  of  town  was  especially  suited  for 
our  purpose.  There  was  nothing  to  be  done.  It  was  another 
case  of  circumstantial  evidence,  and  in  the  absence  of  backing  of 
any  kind  we  did  the  only  thing  we  could ;  packed  up  and  went. 
It  was  not  a  time  for  trifling.  The  slaughter  of  a  number  of 
militiamen  in  a  Pennsylvania  round-house  that  was  set  on  fire  by 
the  strikers  was  fresh  in  the  pubhc  mind.  But  it  was  the  only 
time  1  have  been  suspected  of  sympathy  with  violence  in  the 
settlement  of  labor  disputes.  The  trouble  with  that  plan  is  that 
it  does  not  settle  anything,  but  rakes  up  fresh  injuries  to  rankle 
indefinitely  and  widen  the  gap  between  the  man  who  does  the 
work  and  the  man  who  hires  it  done  so  that  he  may  ha  v^e  time  to 
attend  to  his  own.  Both  workmen,  they  only  need  to  under- 
stand each  other  and  their  conmion  interests  to  see  the  folly  of 
quarrelling.  To  do  that  they  must  know  one  another;  but  a 
blow  and  a  kick  are  a  poor  introduction.  I  am  not  saying  that 
the  provocation  is  not  sometimes  great ;  but  better  not.  It  does 
not  do  any  good,  but  a  lot  of  harm.  Besides,  if  we  haven't  got 
to  the  point  yet  where  we  can  settle  our  disputes  peaceably  by 
discussion,  the  fault  is  not  all  the  employer's  by  any  manner  of 
means. 

We  jumped  out  of  the  ashes  into  the  fire,  as  it  turned  out.  At 
Scranton  our  train  was  held  up.  There  were  torpedoes  on  the 
track;  rails  torn  up  or  something.  For  want  of  something 
better  to  dp,  we  went  out  to  take  a  look  at  the  town.    At  the 


EARLY  INIARRIED  LIFE 


123 


head  of  the  main  street  was  a  big  crowd.  Untaught  by  ex- 
perience, we  bored  our  way  through  it  to  where  a  line  of  men  with 
guns,  some  in  their  shirt-sleeves,  some  in  office  coats,  some  in 
dusters,  were  blocking  advance  to  the  coal  company's  stores. 
The  crowd  hung  sullenly  back,  leaving  a  narrow  space  clear  in 
front  of  the  line.  Within  it  a  man  —  I  learned  afterward  that 
he  was  the  Mayor  of  the  town  —  was  haranguing  the  people, 
counselling  them  to  go  back  to  their  homes  quietl3^  Suddenly 
a  brick  was  thrown  from  behind  me  and  struck  him  on  the  head. 

I  heard  a  word  of  brief  command,  the  rattle  of  a  score  of  guns 
falling  into  as  man}^  extended  hands,  and  a  volley  was  fired  into 
the  crowd  point  blank.  A  man  beside  me  weltered  in  his  blood. 
There  was  an  instant's  dead  silence,  then  the  rushing  of  a  thou- 
sand feet  and  wild  cries  of  terror  as  the  mob  broke  and  fled.  We 
ran  with  it.  In  all  my  life  I  never  ran  so  fast.  I  would  never 
have  believed  that  I  could  do  it.  Ed  teased  me  to  the  day  of  his 
death  about  it,  insisting  tlmt  one  might  have  played  marbles  on 
ni}^  coat-tails,  they  flew  out  behind  so.  But  he  was  an  easy 
winner  in  that  race.  The  riots  were  over,  however,  before  they 
had  begun,  and  perhaps  a  greater  calamity  was  averted.  It 
was  the  only  time  I  was  ever  under  fire,  except  once  when  a  crazy 
man  came  into  IMulberr}^  Street  j^ears  after  and  pointed  a 
rev^olver  at  the  reporters.  I  regret  to  say  that  I  gave  no  better 
account  of  myself  then,  and  for  a  man  who  was  so  hot  to  go  to 
war  I  own  it  is  a  bad  showing.  Perhaps  it  was  as  well  I  didn't 
go,  even  on  that  account.  I  might  have  run  the  wrong  way 
when  it  came  to  the  scratch. 

We  were  not  yet  done  suffering  undeserved  indignities  on  that 
trip,  for  when  we  got  as  far  as  Stanhope,  on  the  Morris  and  Essex 
road,  our  money  had  given  out.  I  offered  the  station-master 
my  watch  as  security  for  the  price  of  two  tickets  to  New  York, 
but  he  bestowed  only  a  contemptuous  glance  upon  it  and  re- 
marked that  there  were  a  good  many  fakirs  running  about  the 


124 


THE  MAKING  OF  AN  AMERICAN 


country  palming  off  snide"  gold  watches  on  people.  Our 
lantern  outfit  found  no  more  favor  with  him,  and  we  were  com- 
pelled to  tramp  it  to  the  village  in  Schooley^s  Mountains  where 
my  wife  was  then  summering  with  our  baby.  We  walked  all 
night,  and  when  at  dawn  we  arrived,  had  the  mortification  of 
being  held  up  by  the  farmer's  dog,  who  knew  nothing  about  us. 
He  walked  alongside  of  me  all  that  day,  as  I  was  pushing  the 
baby-carriage  up  hill,  eying  me  with  a  look  that  said  plainly 
enough  I  had  better  not  make  a  move  to  sneak  away  with  the 
child.    Wells  went  on  to  the  city  to  replenish  our  funds. 

And  here  I  take  leave  of  this  loyal  friend  in  the  story  of  my 
life.  A  better  one  I  never  had.  He  Uved  to  grow  rich  in  posses- 
sions, but  his  wealth  was  his  undoing.  It  is  one  of  the  sore  spots 
in  my  life  —  and  there  are  many  more  than  I  like  to  think  of  — 
that  when  he  needed  me  most  I  was  not  able  to  be  to  him  what  I 
would  and  should  have  been.  We  had  drifted  too  far  apart 
then,  and  the  influence  I  had  over  him  once  I  had  myself  sur- 
rendered. It  was  so  with  Charles.  It  was  so  with  Nicolai. 
They  come,  sometimes  when  I  am  alone,  and  nod  to  me  out  of 
the  dim  past:  ''You  were  not  tempted.  You  should  have 
helped Yes,  God  help  me !  it  is  true.  I  am  more  to  blame 
than  they:  I  should  have  helped  and  did  not.  What  would  I 
not  give  that  I  could  unsay  that  now !  Two  of  them  died  by 
their  own  hand,  the  third  in  Bloomingdale. 

I  had  been  making  several  attempts  to  get  a  foothold  on  one 
of  the  metropolitan  newspapers,  but  always  without  success. 
That  fall  I  tried  the  Tribune,  the  city  editor  of  which,  Mr. 
Shanks,  was  one  of  my  neighbors,  but  was  told,  with  more  frank- 
ness than  flattery,  that  I  was  ''too  green/'  Very  likely  Mr. 
Shanks  had  been  observing  my  campaigns  against  the  beats  and 
thought  me  a  dangerous  man  in  those  days  of  big  libel  suits.  I 
should  have  done  the  same  thing.  But  a  few  weeks  after  he 
changed  his  mind  and  invited  me  to  come  on  the  paper  and  try 


EARLY  MARRIED  LIFE 


125 


my  hand.  So  I  joined  the  staff  of  the  Tribune  five  years  after 
its  great  editor  had  died,  a  beaten  and  crushed  man,  one  of  the 
most  pathetic  figures  in  American  poHtical  history. 

The}'  were  not  halcyon  days,  those  ^vdnter  months  of  reporting 
for  the  Tribune.  I  was  on  trial,  and  it  was  hard  work  and  ver}^ 
little  pay,  not  enough  to  live  on,  so  that  we  were  compelled  to 
take  to  our  little  pile  to  make  ends  meet.  But  there  was  always 
a  bright  fire  and  a  cheery  welcome  for  me  at  home,  so  what  did 
it  matter?  It  was  a  good  winter  despite  the  desperate  stunts 
sometimes  set  me.  Reporters  on  general  work  do  not  sleep  on 
flowery  beds  of  ease.  I  remember  well  one  awful  night  when 
word  came  of  a  dreadful  disaster  on  the  Coney  Island  shore. 
Half  of  it  had  been  washed  away  by  the  sea,  the  report  ran, 
with  houses  and  people.  I  was  sent  out  to  get  at  the  truth  of 
the  thing.  I  started  in  the  early  twilight  and  got  as  far  as 
Gravesend.  The  rest  of  the  way  I  had  to  foot  it  through  snow 
and  slush  knee-deep  in  the  face  of  a  blinding  storm,  and  got  to 
Sheepshead  Bay  dead  beat,  only  to  find  that  the  ice  and  the 
tide  had  shut  off  all  approach  to  the  island. 

I  did  the  next  best  thing ;  I  gathered  from  the  hotel-keepers 
of  the  Bay  an  account  of  the  wreck  on  the  beach  that  lacked 
nothing  in  vividness,  thanks  to  their  laudable  desire  not  to  see 
an  enterprising  reporter  cheated  out  of  his  rightful  space. 
Then  I  hired  a  sleigh  and  drove  home  through  the  storm,  wet 
through  —  ^^I  can  hear  the  water  yet  running  out  of  your  boots, 
says  my  wife  —  wet  through  and  nearly  frozen  stiff,  but  tingling 
with  pride  at  my  feat. 

The  Tribune  next  day  was  the  only  paper  that  had  an  account 
of  the  tidal  wave  on  the  island.  But  something  about  it  did  not 
seem  to  strike  the  city  editor  just  right.  There  was  an  un- 
wonted suavity  in  his  summons  when  he  called  me  to  his  desk 
which  I  had  learned  to  dread  as  liable  to  conceal  some  fatal 
thrust . 


126 


THE  MAKING  OF  AN  AMERICAN 


''So  you  went  to  the  island  last  night,  Mr.  Riis,"  he  observed, 
regarding  me  over  the  edge  of  the  paper. 

''No,  sir!    I  couldn't  get  across;  nobody  could.'' 

"Eh!"  He  lowered  the  paper  an  inch,  and  took  a  better 
look;  'Hhis  very  circumstantial  account — " 

"Was  gathered  from  the  hotel-keepers  in  Sheepshead  Bay, 
who  had  seen  it  all.  If  there  had  been  a  boat  not  stove  by  the 
ice,  I  would  have  got  across  somehow." 

Mr.  Shanks  dropped  the  paper  and  considered  me  almost 
kindly.  I  saw  that  he  had  my  bill  for  the  sleigh-ride  in  his 
hand. 

"  Right !  "  he  said.  "We'll  allow  the  sleigh.  We'll  allow  even 
the  stove,  to  a  man  who  owns  he  didn't  see  it,  though  it  is  pretty 
steep."  He  pointed  to  a  paragraph  which  described  how,  after 
the  wreck  of  the  watchman's  shanty,  the  kitchen  stove  floated 
ashore  with  the  house-cat  alive  and  safe  upon  it.  I  still  believe 
that  an  unfriendly  printer  played  me  that  trick. 

"Next  time,''  he  added,  dismissing  me,  "make  them  swear  to 
the  stove.    There  is  no  accounting  for  cats." 

But,  though  I  did  not  hear  the  last  of  it  in  the  office  lor  a  long 
time,  I  know  that  my  measure  was  taken  by  the  desk  that  day. 
I  was  trusted  after  that,  even  though  I  had  made  a  mistake. 

In  spite  of  it,  I  did  not  get  on.  There  was  not  a  living  in  it  for 
me,  that  was  made  plain  enough.  We  were  too  many  doing 
general  work.  After  six  months  of  hard  grubbing  I  decided  that 
I  had  better  seek  my  fortune  elsewhere.  Spring  was  coming, 
and  it  seemed  a  waste  of  time  to  stay  where  I  was.  I  wrote  out 
my  resignation  and  left  it  on  the  city  editor's  desk.  Some 
errand  took  me  out  of  the  office.  When  I  returned  it  lay  there 
still,  unopened.  I  saw  it,  and  thought  I  would  try  another 
week.  I  might  make  a  strike.  So  I  took  the  note  away  and 
tore  it  up,  just  as  Mr.  Shanks  entered  the  room. 

That  e Visaing  it  set  in  snowing  at  a  great  rate.    I  had  been 


EARLY  MARRIED  LIFE 


127 


uptown  on  a  late  assignment,  and  was  coming  across  Printing- 
House  Square,  running  at  top  speed  to  catch  the  edition.  The 
wind  did  its  part.  There  is  no  corner  in  all  Xew  York  where  it 
blow^s  as  it  does  around  the  Tribune  building.  As  I  flew  into 
Spruce  Street  I  brought  up  smack  against  two  men  coming  out 
of  the  side  door.  One  of  them  I  knocked  off  his  feet  into  a  snow- 
drift. He  floundered  about  in  it  and  swore  dreadfully.  By  the 
voice  I  knew  that  it  was  Mr.  Shanks.  I  stood  petrified,  mechan- 
ically pinning  his  slouch  hat  to  the  ground  with  my  toe.  He  got 
upon  his  feet  at  last  and  came  toward  me,  much  wrought  up. 

'*Who  in  thunder  — "  he  growied  angrily  and  caught  sight  of 
my  rueful  face.  I  was  thinking  I  might  as  well  have  left  my 
note  on  his  desk  that  morning,  for  now  I  w^as  going  to  be  dis- 
charged anyhow. 

'*Is  that  the  w^ay  you  treat  your  city  editor,  Riis?'^  he  asked, 
while  I  handed  him  his  hat. 

^'It  was  the  wind,  sir,  and  I  was  running  — 
Running!    What  is  up  that  set  you  going  at  that  rate?" 

I  told  him  of  the  meeting  I  had  attended  —  it  was  of  no 
account  —  and  that  I  w^as  running  to  catch  the  edition.  He 
heard  me  out. 

''And  do  you  always  run  like  that  when  you  are  out  on  assign- 
ments?" 

''When  it  is  late  like  this,  yes.  How  else  w^ould  I  get  my  copy 
in?" 

"Well,  just  take  a  reef  in  when  you  round  the  corner,"  he 
said,  brushing  the  snow  from  his  clothes.  •  "Don't  run  your  city 
editor  down  again."    And  he  went  his  way. 

It  was  with  anxious  forebodings  I  went  to  the  office  the  next 
morning.  Mr.  Shanks  was  there  before  me.  He  w^as  dictating 
to  his  secretary,  Mr.  Taggart,  who  had  been  witness  of  the 
collision  of  the  night  before,  when  I  came  in.  Presently  I  was 
summoned  to  his  desk,  and  went  there  with  sinking  heart. 


128         THE  MAKING  OF  AN  AMERICAN 


Things  had  commenced  to  look  up  a  bit  in  the  last  twenty-four 
hours,  and  I  had  hoped  yet  to  make  it  go.    Now,  it  was  all  over. 

^^Mr.  Riis/'  he  began  stiffly,  ''you  knocked  me  down  last 
night  without  cause. 

''Yes,  sir!    But  I  — 

"Into  a  snowdrift,'^  he  went  on,  unheeding.  "Nice  thing  for 
a  reporter  to  do  to  his  commanding  officer.  Now,  sir !  this  will 
not  do.  We  must  find  some  way  of  preventing  it  in  the  future. 
Our  man  at  Police  Headquarters  has  left.  I  am  going  to  send 
you  up  there  in  his  place.  You  can  run  there  all  you  want  to, 
and  you  will  want  to  all  you  can.  It  is  a  place  that  needs  a  man 
who  will  run  to  get  his  copy  in  and  tell  the  truth  and  stick  to  it. 
You  will  find  plenty  of  fighting  there.  But  don't  go  knocking 
people  down  —  unless  you  have  to.'' 

And  with  this  kind  of  an  introduction  I  was  sent  off  to  Mul- 
berry Street,  where  I  was  to  find  my  life-work.  It  is  twenty- 
three  years  since  the  day  I  took  my  first  walk  up  there  and  looked 
over  the  ground  that  has  since  become  so  familiar  to  me.  I 
knew  it  by  reputation  as  the  hardest  place  on  the  paper,  and  it 
was  in  no  spirit  of  exultation  that  I  looked  out  upon  the  stirring 
life  of  the  block.  If  the  truth  be  told,  I  think  I  was,  if  anything, 
a  bit  afraid.  The  story  of  the  big  fight  the  Tribune  reporter  was 
having  on  his  hands  up  there  with  all  the  other  papers  had  long 
been  echoing  through  newspaperdom,  and  I  was  not  deceived. 
But,  after  all,  I  had  been  doing  little  else  myself,  and,  having 
given  no  offence,  my  cause  would  be  just.  In  which  case,  what 
had  I  to  frar?  So  in  my  soul  I  commended  my  work  and  myself 
to  the  God  of  battles  who  gives  victory,  and  took  hold. 

Right  here,  lest  I  make  myself  appear  better  than  I  am,  I 
want  to  say  that  I  am  not  a  praying  man  in  the  sense  of  being 
versed  in  the  language  of  prayer  or  anything  of  that  kind.  I 
wish  I  were.  So,  I  might  have  been  better  able  to  serve  my 
unhappy  friends  when  they  needed  me.    Indeed,  those  who 


EARLY  IMARRIED  LIFE 


129 


have  known  me  under  strong  provocation  —  provocation  is 
very  strong  in  Mulberry  Street  —  would  scorn  such  an  inti- 
mation, and,  I  am  sorry  to  say,  with  cause.  I  was  once  a  deacon, 
but  they  did  not  often  let  me  lead  in  prayer.  My  supplications 
ordinarily  take  the  form  of  putting  the  case  plainly  to  Him  who 
is  the  source  of  all  right  and  all  justice,  and  leaving  it  so.  If  I 
were  to  find  that  I  could  not  do  that,  I  should  decline  to  go  into 
the  fight,  or,  if  I  had  to,  should  feel  that  I  were  to  be  justly 
beaten.  In  all  the  years  of  my  reporting  I  have  never  omitted 
this  when  anything  big  was  on  foot,  whether  a  fire,  a  murder,  a 
robbery,  or  whatever  might  come  in  the  way  of  duty,  and  I  have 
never  heard  that  my  reports  were  any  the  worse  for  it.  I  know 
they  were  better.  Perhaps  the  notion  of  a  police  reporter  pray- 
ing that  he  may  write  a  good  murder,  story  may  seem  ludicrous, 
even  irreverent,  to  some  people.  But  that  is  only  because  they 
fail  to  make  out  in  it  the  human  element  which  dignifies  any- 
thing and  rescues  it  from  reproach.  Unless  I  could  go  to  my 
story  that  way  I  would  not  go  to  it  at  all.  I  am  very  sure  that 
there  is  no  irreverence  in  it  —  just  the  reverse. 

So  I  dived  in.    But  before  I  did  it  I  telegraphed  to  my  wife  :  — 
''Got  staff  appointment.    Police  Headquarters.    $25  a  week. 
Hurrah !" 

I  knew  it  woula  make  her  happy. 


CHAPTER  IX 


Life  in  Mulberry  Street 

It  was  well  that  I  stopped  to  make  explanations  before  I 
took  hold  in  my  new  office.  Mighty  little  time  was  left  me 
after.  What  the  fight  was  about  to  which  I  fell  heir  I  have 
long  since  forgotten.  Mulberr}^  Street  in  those  days  was  prone 
to  such  things.  Somebody  was  alwa^^s  fighting  somebody 
else  for  some  fancied  injury  or  act  of  bad  faith  in  the  gathering 
of  the  news.  For  the  time  being  they  all  made  common  cause 
against  the  reporter  of  the  Tribune,  who  also  represented  the 
local  bureau  of  the  Associated  Press.  They  hailed  the  coming  of 
^'the  Dutchman"  with  shouts  of  derision,  and  decided,  I  sup- 
pose, to  finish  me  off  while  I  was  new.  So  they  pulled  them- 
selves together  for  an  effort,  and  within  a  week  I  was  so  badl^^ 
'^beaten in  the  PoHce  Department,  in  the  Health  Department, 
in  the  Fire  Department,  the  Coroner's  office,  and  the  Excise 
Bureau,  all  of  which  it  was  my  task  to  cover,  that  the  manager 
of  the  Press  Bureau  called  me  down  to  look  me  over.  He 
reported  to  the  Tribune  that  he  did  not  think  I  would  do. 
But  Mr.  Shanks  told  him  to  wait  and  see.  In  some  way  I 
heard  of  it,  and  that  settled  it  that  I  was  to  win.  1  might  be 
beaten  in  many  a  battle,  but  how  could  I  lose  the  fight  with  a 
general  hke  Ghat? 

130 


LIFE  IN  MULBERRY  STREET 


131 


And,  indeed,  in  another  week  it  was  their  turn  to  be  called 
dowTi  to  give  an  account  of  themselves.  The  Dutchman^' 
had  stolen  a  march  on  them.  I  suppose  it  was  to  them  a  very 
astounding  thing,  yet  it  was  perfectly  simple.  Their  very 
strength,  as  they  held  it  to  be,  was  their  ^veakness.  They 
w^ere  a  dozen  against  one,  and  each  one  of  them  took  it  for 
granted  that  the  other  eleven  were  attending  to  business  and 
that  he  need  not  exert  himself  overmuch.  A  good  many  years 
after,  I  had  that  experience  as  a  member  of  a  board  of  tw^elve 
trustees,  each  one  of  whom  had  lent  his  name  but  not  his  work 
to  the  cause  we  were  supposed  to  represent.  When  w^e  met  at 
the  end  of  that  season,  and  heard  how  narrow  had  been  the  escape 
from  calamity  due  to  utter  lack  of  management,  a  good  Metho- 
dist brother  put  in  words  what  we  were  each  and  every  one  of  us 
thinking  about. 

''Brethren,'^  he  said,  ''so  far  as  I  can  make  out,  but  for  the 
interposition  of  a  merciful  Providence  w^e  should  all  be  in  jail, 
as  we  deserve.    Let  us  pray!" 

I  think  that  prayer  was  more  than  lip-service  with  most  of 
us.  I  know  that  I  registered  a  vow  that  I  would  never  again 
be  trustee  of  anything  without  trusteeing  it  in  fact.  And  I 
have  kept  the  vow. 

But  to  return  "o  Mulberry  Street.  The  immediate  result 
of  this  first  victory  of  mine  was  a  whirlwind  onslaught  on  me, 
fiercer  than  anything  that  had  gone  before.  I  expected  it 
and  met  it  as  well  as  I  could,  holding  my  own  after  a  fashion. 
WTien,  from  sheer  exhaustion,  they  let  up  to  see  if  I  w^as  still 
there,  I  paid  them  back  with  tw^o  or  three  "beats"  I  had  stored 
up  for  the  occasion.  And  then  w^e  settled  down  to  the  ten 
years'  war  for  the  mastery,  out  of  which  I  was  to  come  at  last 
fairly  the  victor,  and  with  the  only  renown  I  have  ever  coveted 
or  cared  to  have,  that  of  being  the  "boss  reporter"  in  Mulberry 
Street.    I  have  so  often  been  asked  in  later  years  what  my  work 


132 


THE  MAKING  OF  AN  AMERICAN 


was  there/  and  how  I  found  there  the  point  of  view  from  which 
I  wrote  my  books,  that  I  suppose  I  shall  have  to  go  somewhat 
into  the  details  of  it. 

The  poUce  reporter  on  a  newspaper,  then,  is  the  one  who 
gathers  and  handles  all  the  news  that  means  trouble  to  some  one  : 
the  murders,  fires,  suicides,  robberies,  and  all  that  sort,  before 
it  gets  into  court.  He  has  an  office  in  Mulberry  Street,  across 
from  Police  Headquarters,  where  he  receives  the  first  intimation 
of  the  trouble  through  the  precinct  reports.  Or  else  he  does  not 
receive  it.  The  police  do  not  like  to  tell  the  public  of  a  robbery 
or  a  safe  ^'cracking,"  for  instance.  They  claim  that  it  interferes 
with  the  ends  of  justice.  What  they  really  mean  is  that  it 
brings  ridicule  or  censure  upon  them  to  have  the  public  know 
that  they  do  not  catch  every  thief,  or  even  most  of  them.  They 
would  like  that  impression  to  go  out,  for  police  work  is  largely  a 
game  of  bluff.  Here,  then,  is  an  opportunity  for  the  '^beats'' 
I  speak  of.  The  reporter  who,  through  acquaintance,  friend- 
ship, or  natural  detective  skill,  can  get  that  which  it  is  the  pohcy 
of  the  police  to  conceal  from  him,  wins.  It  may  seem  to  many 
a  reader  a  matter  of  no  great  importance  if  a  man  should  miss 
a  safe-burglary  for  his  paper ;  but  reporting  is  a  business,  a  very 
exacting  one  at  that,  and  if  he  will  stop  a  moment  and  think 
what  it  is  he  instinctively  looks  at  first  in  his  morning  paper, 
even  if  he  has  schooled  himself  not  to  read  it  through,  he  will 
see  it  differentl3^  The  fact  is  that  it  is  all  a  great  human  drama 
in  which  these  things  are  the  acts  that  mean  grief,  suffering, 
revenge  upon  somebody,  loss  or  gain.  The  reporter  who  is 
behind  the  scenes  sees  the  tumult  of  passions,  and  not  rarely  a 
human  heroism  that  redeems  all  the  rest.  It  is  his  task  so  to 
portray  it  that  we  can  all  see  its  meaning,  or  at  all  events  catch 

1  I  say  was ;  only  in  the  last  twelvemonth  have  I  grasped  Mr.  Dana's 
meaning  in  calling  his  reporters  his  ''young  men."  They  need  to  be 
that.    I,  for  one,  have  grown  too  old. 


LIFE  IX  :\IULBERRY  STREET 


133 


the  human  drift  of  it,  not  merely  the  foulness  and  the  reek  of 
blood.  If  he  can  do  that,  he  has  performed  a  signal  service, 
and  his  murder  story  may  easily  come  to  speak  more  eloquently 
to  the  minds  of  thousands  than  the  sermon  preached  to  a  hundred 
in  the  church  on  Sunday. 

Of  the  advantages  that  smooth  the  way  to  newsgetting  I 
had  none.  I  was  "a  stranger,  and  I  was  never  distinguished 
for  detective  abihty.  But  good  hard  work  goes  a  long  way 
toward  making  up  for  lack  of  genius ;  and  I  mentioned  only  one 
of  the  opportunities  for  getting  ahead  of  my  opponents.  They 
were  Mng  all  about  us.  Any  seemingly  innocent  slip  sent  out 
from  the  police  telegraph  office  across  the  way  recording  a  petty 
tenement-house  fire  might  hide  a  fire-bug,  who  always  makes 
shuddering  appeal  to  our  fears ;  the  finding  of  John  Jones  sick 
and  destitute  in  the  street  meant,  perhaps,  a  story  full  of  the 
deepest  pathos.  Indeed,  I  can  think  of  a  dozen  now  that  did. 
I  see  before  me,  as  though  it  were  yesterday,  the  desolate  Wooster 
Street  attic,  with  wind  and  rain  sweeping  through  the  bare  room 
in  which  lay  dying  a  French  nobleman  of  proud  and  ancient 
name,  the  last  of  his  house.  He  was  one  of  m}^  early  triumphs. 
New  York  is  a  queer  town.  The  grist  of  every  hopper  in  the 
world  comes  to  it.  I  shall  not  soon  forget  the  gloomy  tenement 
in  CHnton  Street  >"here  that  day  a  poor  shoemaker  had  shot 
himself.  His  name,  Struensee,  had  brought  me  over,  I 
knew  there  could  not  be  such  another.  That  was  where  my 
Danish  birth  stood  me  in  good  stead.  I  knew  the  story  of 
Christian  VII.'s  masterful  minister;  of  his  fall  and  trial  on  the 
charge  of  supplanting  his  master  in  the  affections  of  the  young 
and  beautiful  Queen,  sister  of  George  III.  Very  old  men  told 
yet,  when  I  was  a  boy,  of  that  dark  da}^  when  the  proud  head 
fell  under  the  executioner's  axe  in  the  castle  square  —  dark  for 
the  people  whoso  champion  Struensee  had  tried  to  be.  My 
mother  was  born  and  reared  in  the  castle  at  Elsinore  where  the 


134         THE  MAKING  OF  AN  AMERICAN 


unhappy  Queen,  disgraced  and  an  outcast,  wrote  on  the  window- 
pane  of  her  prison  cell :  ''Lord,  keep  me  innocent ;  make  others 
great.''  It  was  all  a  familiar  story  to  me,  and  when  I  sat  beside 
that  dead  shoemaker  and,  looking  through  his  papers,  read 
there  that  the  tragedy  of  a  hundred  years  before  was  his  family 
story,  I  knew  that  I  held  in  my  hands  the  means  of  paying  off 
all  accumulated  scores  to  date. 

Did  I  settle  in  full?  Yes,  I  did.  I  was  in  a  fight  not  of 
my  own  choosing,  and  I  was  well  aware  that  my  turn  was  coming. 
I  hit  as  hard  as  I  knew  how,  and  so  did  they.  When  t  speak  of 
''triumphs,"  it  is  professionally.  There  was  no  hard-heartedness 
about  it.  We  did  not  gloat  over  the  misfortunes  we  described. 
We  were  reporters,  not  ghouls.  There  lies  before  me  as  I  write 
a  letter  that  came  in  the  mail  this  afternoon  from  a  woman  who 
bitterly  objects  to  my  diagnosis  of  the  reporter's  as  the  highest 
and  noblest  of  all  callings.  She  signs  herself  ''a  sufferer  from 
reporters'  unkindness,"  and  tells  me  how  in  the  hour  of  her  deep 
affliction  they  have  trodden  upon  her  heart.  Can  I  not,  she 
asks,  encourage  a  public  sentiment  that  will  make  such  reporting 
disreputable  ?  All  my  life  I  have  tried  to  do  so,  and,  in  spite  of 
the  evidence  of  yellow  journalism  to  the  contrary,  I  think  we 
are  coming  nearer  to  that  ideal ;  in  other  words,  we  are  emerging 
from  savagery.  Striving  madly  for  each  other's  scalps  as  we 
were,  I  do  not  think  that  we  scalped  any  one  else  unjustly.  I 
know  I  did  not.  They  were  not  particularly  scrupulous,  I  am 
bound  to  say.  In  their  rage  and  mortification  at  having  under- 
estimated the  enemy,  they  did  things  unworthy  of  men  and  of 
reporters.  They  stole  my  slips  in  the  telegraph  office  and  sub- 
stituted others  that  sent  me  off  on  a  wild-goose  chase  to  the 
farthest  river  wards  in  the  midnight  hour,  thinking  so  to  tire  me 
out.  But  they  did  it  once  too  often.  I  happened  on  a  very 
important  case  on  such  a  trip,  and  made  the  most  of  it,  tele- 
graphing down  a  column  or  more  about  it  from  the  office,  while 


LIFE  IX  MULBERRY  STREET 


135 


the  enemy  watched  me  helplessly  from  the  Headquarters' 
stoop  across  the  way.  They  were  gathered  there,  waiting  for 
me  to  come  back,  and  receive  me  with  loud  and  mocking  ahems  ! 
and  respectfully  sympathetic  toots  on  a  tin  horn,  kept  for  that 
purpose.  Its  voice  had  a  mournful  strain  in  it  that  was  espe- 
cially exasperating.  But  when,  without  paying  any  attention 
to  them,  I  busied  myself  with  the  wire  at  once,  and  kept  at  it 
right  along,  they  scented  trouble,  and  consulted  anxiously 
among  themselves.  My  story  finished,  I  went  out  and  sat  on 
my  own  stoop  and  said  ahem !  in  my  turn  in  as  many  aggra- 
vating ways  as  I  could.  They  knew  they  were  beaten  then, 
and  shortly  they  had  confirmation  of  it.  The  report  came  in 
from  the  precinct  at  2  a.m.,  but  it  was  then  too  late  for  their 
papers,  for  there  were  no  telephones  in  those  days.  I  had  the 
only  telegraph  wire.  After  that  they  gave  up  such  tricks,  and 
the  Tribune  saved  many  cab  fares  at  night ;  for  there  were  no 
elevated  railroads,  either,  in  those  days,  or  electric  or  cable 
cars. 

On  the  other  hand,  this  enterprise  of  ours  was  often  of  the 
highest  ser\dce  to  the  public.  When,  for  instance,  in  following 
up  a  case  of  destitution  and  illness  invohdng  a  whole  family,  I, 
tracing  back  the  origin  of  it,  came  upon  a  party  at  which  ham 
sandwiches  had  Jbeen  the  bill  of  fare,  and  upon  looking  up  the 
guests,  found  seventeen  of  the  twenty-five  sick  with  identical 
sjrmptoms,  it  required  no  medical  knowledge,  but  merely  the 
ordinary  information  and  training  of  the  reporter,  to  diagnose 
trichinosis.  The  seventeen  had  half  a  dozen  different  doctors, 
who,  knowing  nothing  of  party  or  ham,  were  helpless,  and  saw 
only  cases  of  rheumatism  or  such  like.  I  called  as  many  of  them 
as  I  could  reach  together  that  night,  introduced  them  to  one 
another  and  to  my  facts,  and  asked  them  what  they  thought 
then.  What  they  thought  made  a  sensation  in  my  paper  the 
nejct  morning,  and  practically  decided  the  fight,  though  the 


136 


THE  MAKING  OF  AN  AMERICAN 


enemy  was  able  to  spoil  my  relish  for  the  ham  by  reporting 
the  poisoning  of  a  whole  family  with  a  dish  of  depraved  smelt 
while  I  was  chasing  up  the  trichinae.  However,  I  had  my 
revenge.  I  walked  in  that  afternoon  upon  Dr.  Cyrus  Edson  at 
his  microscope  surrounded  by  my  adversaries,  who  besought 
him  to  deny  my  story.  The  doctor  looked  quizzically  at  them 
and  made  reply :  — 

^'I  would  hke  to  oblige  you,  boys,  but  how  I  can  do  it  with 
those  fellows  squirming  under  the  microscope  I  don't  see.  I 
took  them  from  the  flesh  of  one  of  the  patients  who  was  sent  to 
Trinity  Hospital  to-day.    Look  at  them  yourself. 

He  winked  at  me,  and,  peering  into  his  microscope,  I  saw 
my  diagnosis  more  than  confirmed.  There  were  scores  of  the 
little  beasts  curled  up  and  burrowing  in  the  speck  of  tissue. 
The  unhappy  patient  died  that  week. 

We  had  our  specialties  in  this  contest  of  wits.  One  was 
distinguished  as  a  sleuth.  He  fed  on  detective  mysteries  as  a 
cat  on  a  chicken-bone.  He  thought  them  out  by  day  and 
dreamed  them  out  by  night,  to  the  great  exasperation  of  the 
official  detectives,  with  whom  their  solution  was  a  con^mercial, 
not  in  the  least  an  intellectual,  affair.  They  solved  them  on  the 
plane  of  the  proverbial  lack  of  honor  among  thieves,  by  the 
formula,  '^You  scratch  my  back,  and  Til  scratch  yours.'' 

Ailother  came  out  strong  on  fires.  He  knew  the  history  of 
every  house  in  town  that  ran  any  risk  of  being  burned ;  knew 
every  fireman ;  and  could  tell  within  a  thousand  dollars,  more 
or  less,  what  was  the  value  of  the  goods  stored  in  any  building 
in  the  dry-goods  district,  and  for  how  much  they  were  insured. 
If  he  couldn't,  he  did  anyhow,  and  his  guesses  often  came  near 
the  fact,  as  shown  in  the  final  adjustment.  He  sniffed  a  firebug 
from  afar,  and  knew  without  asking  how  much  salvage  there 
was  in  a  bale  of  cotton  after  being  twenty-four  hours  in  the  fire. 
He  is  dead,  poor  fellow.    In  life  he  was  fond  of  a  joke,  and  in 


LIFE  IX  MULBERRY  STREET 


137 


death  the  joke  clung  to  him  in  a  way  wholly  unforeseen.  The 
firemen  in  the  next  block,  with  whom  he  made  his  headquarters 
when  off  duty,  so  that  he  might  always  be  within  hearing  of  the 
gong,  wished  to  give  some  tangible  evidence  of  their  regard  for 
the  old  reporter,  but,  being  in  a  hurry,  left  it  to  the  florist,  who 
knew  him  well,  to  choose  the  design.  He  hit  upon  a  floral 
fire-badge  as  the  proper  thing,  and  thus  it  was  that  when  the 
company  of  mourners  was  assembled,  and  the  funeral  service 
in  progress,  there  arrived  and  was  set  upon  the  coffin,  in  the 
view  of  all,  that  triumph  of  the  florist^s  art,  a  shield  of  white 
roses,  with  this  legend  written  across  it  in  red  immortelles: 

Admit  within  fire  fines  only.''  It  was  shocking,  but  irresistible. 
It  brought  down  even  the  house  of  mourning. 

The  incident  recalls  another,  which  at  the  time  caused  me  no 
little  astonishment.  A  telegram  from  Long  Branch  had 
announced  the  drowning  of  a  young  actor,  I  think,  whose  three 
sisters  lived  over  on  Eighth  Avenue,  I  had  gone  to  the  house 
to  learn  about  the  accident,  and  found  them  in  the  first  burst  of 
grief,  dissolved  in  tears.  It  was  a  very  hot  July  day,  and  to 
guard  against  sunstroke  I  had  put  a  cabbage-leaf  in  my  hat.  On 
the  way  over  I  forgot  all  about  it,  and  the  leaf,  getting  limp, 
settled  down  snugly  upon  my  head  like  a  ridiculous  green  skull- 
cap. Knowdng  mithing  of  this,  I  was  wholly  unprepared  for 
the  effect  my  entrance,  hatless,  had  upon  the  weeping  family. 
The  young  ladies  ceased  crying,  stared  wildly,  and  then,  to 
my  utter  bewilderment,  broke  into  hysterical  laughter.  For 
the  moment  I  thought  they  had  gone  mad.  It  was  only  when 
in  my  perplexity  I  put  up  my  hand  to  rub  my  head,  that  I 
came  upon  the  cause  of  the  strange  hilarity.  For  years  after- 
ward the  thought  of  it  had  the  same  effect  upon  me  that  the 
cabbage-leaf  produced  so  unexpectedly  in  that  grief-stricken 
home. 

I  might  fill  many  pages  with  such  stories,  but  I  shall  not 


138 


THE  MAKING  OF  AN  AMERICAN 


attempt  it.  Dorthey  seem  mean  and  trifling  in  the  retrospect? 
Not  at  all.  They  were  my  work,  and  I  liked  it.  And  I  got  a 
good  deal  of  fun  out  of  it  from  time  to  time.  I  mind  Dr.  Bry- 
ant's parrot  story.  Dr.  Joseph  D.  Bryant  was  Health  Commis- 
sioner at  the  time,  and  though  we  rarely  agreed  about  anything 
—  there  is  something  curious  about  that,  that  the  men  I  have 
thought  most  of  were  quite  often  those  with  whom  I  disagreed 
ordinarily  about  everything  —  I  can  say  truly  that  there  have 
been  few  better  Health  Commissioners,  and  none  for  whom 
I  have  had  a  more  hearty  respect  and  liking.  Dr.  Bryant  es- 
pecially hated  reporters.  He  was  built  that  way;  he  disliked 
notoriety  for  himself  and  his  friends,  and  therefore,  when  one 
of  these  complained  of  a  neighbor's  parrot  to  the  Health  De- 
partment, he  gave  strict  orders  that  the  story  was  to  be  guarded 
from  the  reporters,  and  particularly  from  me,  who  had  grieved 
him  more  than  once  by  publishing  things  which,  in  his  opinion, 
I  ought  to  have  said  nothing  about.  I  heard  of  it  within  the 
hour,  and  promptly  set  my  wit  against  the  Doctor's  to  unearth 
the  parrot. 

But  it  would  not  come  out.  Dig  as  I  might,  I  could  not  get 
at  it.  I  tried  every  way,  while  the  Doctor  laughed  in  his  sleeve 
and  beamed  upon  me.  At  last,  in  desperation,  I  hit  upon  a 
bold  plan.  I  would  get  it  out  of  the  Doctor  himself.  I  knew 
his  hours  for  coming  to  Sanitary  Headquarters  —  from  his 
clinics,  I  suppose.  He  always  came  up  the  stairs  absorbed  in 
thought,  noticing  nothing  that  passed.  I  waylaid  him  in  the 
turn  of  the  dark  hall,  and  before  he  had  time  to  think  plumped 
at  him  an  — 

"Oh,  Doctor!  about  that  parrot  of  your  friend  —  er-er,  oh! 
what  was  his  name?" 

"Alley,"  said  the  Doctor,  mechanically,  and  went  in,  only 
half  hearing  what  I  said.  I  made  for  the  citj^  directory.  There 
were  four  Allv^ys  in  it.    In  an  hour  I  had  located  my  man,  and 


LIFE  IN  MULBERUY  STREET 


139 


the  next  morning's  Tribune  had  a  column  account  of  the  tragedy 
of  the  parrot. 

The  Doctor  was  very  angry.  He  went  to  Headquarters  and 
summoned  me  solemnly  before  the  assembled  Board.  The 
time  had  come,  he  said,  to  have  an  explanation  from  me  as  to 
who  it  was  that  gave  me  information  against  orders  and  the 
public  interest.  Evidently  there  was  a  traitor  in  camp,  by 
whatever  means  I  had  procured  his  treachery. 

In  vain  did  I  try  to  show  the  Doctor  how  unprofessional  my 
conduct  would  be  in  betraying  my  informant,  even  how  con- 
temptible. He  was  inexorable.  This  time  I  should  not  escape, 
nor  my  accomplice  either.  Out  with  it,  and  at  once.  With  a 
show  of  regi-etful  resignation  I  gave  in.  For  once  I  would  break 
my  rule  and  '^tell  on"  my  informant.  I  thought  I  detected  a 
sUght  sneer  on  the  Doctor's  lip  as  he  said  that  was  well ;  for  he 
was  a  gentleman,  every  inch  of  him,  and  I  know  he  hated  me 
for  telling.    The  other  Commissioners  looked  grave. 

"Well,  then,"  I  said,  '*the  man  who  gave  me  the  parrot  story 
was  —  you.  Dr.  Bryant." 

The  Doctor  sat  bolt  upright  with  a  jerk.  ''No  bad  jokes, 
Mr.  Riis,"  he  said.    ''Who  gave  you  the  story?" 

"Why,  you  did.  Don't  you  remember?"  And  I  told  how 
I  waylaid  him  ii'  the  hall.  His  face,  as  the  narrative  ran  on, 
was  a  study.  Anger,  mirth,  offended  pride,  struggled  there; 
but  the  humor  of  the  thing  got  the  upper  hand  in  the  end,  and 
the  one  who  laughed  loudest  in  the  Board  room  was  Dr.  Bryant 
himself.  In  my  soul  I  believe  that  he  was  not  a  little  relieved, 
for  under  a  manner  of  much  sternness  he  had  the  tender  est  of 
hearts. 

But  it  was  not  always  I  who  came  out  ahead  in  the  daily  en- 
counters which  made  up  the  routine  of  my  day.  It  was  an 
important  part  of  my  task  to  be  on  such  terms  with  the  heads 
of  departments  that  they  would  talk  freely  to  us  so  that  we 


140         THE  MAKING  OF  AN  AMERICAN 


might  know  in  any  given  case,  or  with  reference  to  the  policy  of 
the  department,  where  we  were  at."  I  do  not  mean  talk  for 
publication.  It  is  a  common  mistake  of  people  who  know  noth- 
ing about  the  newspaper  profession  that  reporters  .flit  about 
public  men  like  so  many  hawks,  seizing  upon  what  they  can 
find  to  publish  as  their  lawful  prey.  No  doubt  there  are  such 
guerrillas,  and  they  have  occasionally  more  than  justified  their 
existence ;  but,  as  applied  to  the  staff  reporters  of  a  great  news- 
paper, nothing  could  be  farther  from  the  truth.  The  department 
reporter  has  his  field  as  carefully  laid  out  for  him  every  day  as  any 
physician  who  starts  out  on  his  route,  and  within  that  field,  if 
he  is  the  right  sort  of  man,  he  is  friend,  companion,  and  often 
counsellor  to  the  officials  with  whom  he  comes  in  contact  — 
always  supposing  that  he  is  not  fighting  them  in  open  war. 
He  may  serve  a  Republican  paper  and  the  President  of  the 
Police  Board  may  be  a  Democrat  of  Democrats ;  yet  in  the  pri- 
vacy of  his  office  he  will  talk  as  freely  to  the  reporter  as  if  he 
were  his  most  intimate  party  friend,  knowing  that  he  will  not 
publish  what  is  said  in  confidence.  This  is  the  reporter's  capital, 
without  which  he  cannot  in  the  long  run  do  business. 

I  presume  he  is  sometimes  tempted  to  gamble  with  it  for  a 
stake.  I  remember  well  when  the  temptation  came  to  me  once 
after  a  quiet 'hour  with  Police  Commissioner  ]\Iatthews,  who  had 
been  telling  me  the  inside  history  of  an  affair  which  just  then 
was  setting  the  whole  town  by  the  ears.  I  told  him  that  I 
thought  I  should  have  to  print  it;  it  was  too  good  to  keep. 
No,  it  woaldn't  do,  he  said.  I  knew  well  enough  he  was  right, 
but  I  insisted ;  the  chance  was  too  good  a  one  to  miss.  Mr.  Mat- 
thews shook  his  head.  He  was  an  invalid,  and  was  taking  his 
daily  treatment  with  an  electric  battery  while  we  talked  and 
smoked.  He  warned  me  laughingly  against  the  consequences 
of  what  I  proposed  to  do,  and  changed  the  subject. 

^'Ever  try  these?''  he  said,  giving  me  the  handles.    I  took 


LIFE  IX  MULBERRY  STREET  141 


them,  unsuspecting,  and  felt  the  current  tingle  in  my  finger- 
tips. The  next  instant  it  gripped  me  like  a  vice.  I  squirmed 
with  pain. 

'^Stop!^'  I  yelled,  and  tried  to  throw  the  things  away;  but 
my  hands  crooked  themselves  about  them  like  a  bird's  claws 
and  held  them  fast.  They  would  not  let  go.  I  looked  at  the 
Commissioner.  He  was  studying  the  battery  leisurely,  and 
slowly  pulling  out  the  plug  that  increased  the  current. 

'^For  mercy's  sake,  stop!''  I  called  to  him.  He  looked  up 
inquiringly. 

''About  that  interview,  now,"  he  drawled,  ''Do  you  think 
you  ought  to  print  —  " 

"Wow,  wow!  Let  go,  I  tell  you!''  It  hurt  dreadfully.  He 
pulled  the  thing  out  another  peg. 

"You  know  it  wouldn't  do,  really.  Xow,  if  —  "  He  made 
as  if  to  still  further  increase  the  current.    I  surrendered. 

"Let  up,"  I  begged,  "and  I  will  not  say  a  word.  Only  let 
up." 

He  set  me  free.  He  never  spoke  of  it  once  in  all  the  years 
I  knew  him,  but  now  and  again  he  would  offer  me,  with  a  dry 
smile,  the  use  of  his  battery  as  "very  good  for  the  health." 
I  always  declined  with  thanks. 

I  got  into  ]\Iulb?rry  Street  at  what  might  well  be  called  the 
heroic  age  of  police  reporting.  It  rang  still  with  the  echoes  of 
the  unfathomed  Charley  Ross  mystery.  That  year  occurred 
the  Stewart  grave  robbery  and  the  Manhattan  Bank  burglary 
—  three  epoch-ma'king  crimes  that  each  in  its  way  made  a  sensa- 
tion such  as  Xew  York  has  not  known  since.  For  though  Charley 
Ross  was  stolen  in  Philadelphia,  the  search  for  him  centred  in 
the  metropolis.  The  three-million-dollar  burglary  within  the 
shadow  of  Police  Headquarters  gave  us  Inspector  Byrnes,  who 
broke  up  the  old  gangs  of  crooks  and  drove  those  whom  he  did 
not  put  in  jail  over  the  sea  to  ply  their  trade  in  Europe.  The 


142 


THE  MAKING  OF  AN  AMERICAN 


Stewart  grave  robbery  ended  the  career  of  the  ghouls,  and  the 
Charley  Ross  case  put  a  stop  to  child-stealing  for  a  generation, 
by  making  those  crimes  unprofitable.  The  public  excitement 
was  so  great  that  it  proved  impossible  for  the  thieves  to  deliver 
the  goods  and  effect  the  change  for  ransom.  At  intervals  for 
years  these  cases  kept  turning  up  in  one  new  phase  or  another. 
You  could  never  tell  where  to  look  for  them.  Indeed,  I  have 
to  thank  the  Stewart  ghouls  for  the  first  public  recognition  that 
came  to  me  in  those  early  years  of  toil.  Of  all  the  mysteries 
that  ever  vexed  a  reporter's  soul,  that  was  the  most  agonizing. 
The  police,  most  of  the  time,  were  as  much  in  the  dark  as  the 
rest  of  us,  and  nothing  was  to  be  got  from  that  source.  Heaven 
knows  I  tried.  In  our  desperation  we  caught  at  every  straw. 
One  stormy  night  in  the  hottest  of  the  excitement  Judge  Hilton, 
who  had  offered  the  $50,000  reward  for  the  stolen  body  on  behalf 
of  Mrs.  Stewart,  went  to  Headquarters  and  stayed  an  hour  in 
the  detective  office.  When  he  came  out,  he  was  attended  by 
two  of  the  oldest  and  ablest  detectives.  Clearly  something  big 
was  on  foot.  They  were  just  like  so  many  sphinxes,  and  went 
straight  to  the  carriage  that  waited  at  the  Mulberry  Street  door. 
I  do  not  know  how  it  ever  entered  my  head ;  perhaps  it  didn't 
at  all,  but  was  just  done  mechanically.  The  wind  had  blown  out 
the  lamp  on  the  steps,  and  the  street  was  in  profound  darkness. 
As  they  stepped  into  the  carriage,  I,  with  only  the  notion  in  my 
head  that  here  was  news  which  must  be  got  somehow,  went  in 
last  and  sank  down  in  the  vacant  seat,  pulling  the  door  to  after 
me.  The  carriage  went  on.  To  my  intense  relief,  it  rounded 
the  corner.  I  was  undiscovered !  But  at  that  moment  it  came 
to  a  sudden  stop.  An  invisible  hand  opened  the  door,  and, 
grasping  my  collar,  gently  but  firmly  propelled  me  into- the 
street  and  dropped  me  there.  Then  the  carriage  went  on. 
Not  a  word  had  been  spoken.  They  understood  and  so  did  I. 
It  was  enoiigh. 


LIFE  IX  MULBERRY  STREET  143 


But,  as  I  said,  I  had  my  revenge.  It  came  when  the  opposi- 
tion reporters,  beheving  the  mystery  to  be  near  its  solution,^ 
entered  into  a  conspiracy  to  forestall  it  and  deliberately  invented 
the  lines  of  the  coming  denouement.  Day  by  day  they  pub- 
lished its  progress  ^'upon  the  authority  of  a  high  ofiiciar'  who 
never  existed,  announcing  that  '^behind  each  one  of  the  grave- 
robbers  stood  a  detective  with  uplifted  hand"  ready  to  arrest 
him  when  the  word  was  given.  It  was  truly  the  dawn  of  yellow 
journalism.  With  such  extraordinary  circumstantiality  were  the 
accounts  given  that  for  once  my  office  wavered  in  its  faith  in 
Ensign  and  me.  Amos  Ensign  was  my  partner  at  the  time,  a 
fine  fellow  and  a  good  reporter.  If  we  turned  out  to  be  wrong, 
we  were  given  to  understand  our  careers  on  the  Tribune  would 
be  at  an  end.  I  slept  little  or  none  during  that  month  of  intense 
work  and  excitement,  but  spent  m}^  days  as  my  nights  sifting 
every  scrap  of  evidence.  There  was  nothing  to  justify  the 
stories,  and  we  maintained  in  our  paper  that  they  were  lies. 
Mr.  Shanks  himself  left  the  city  desk  and  came  up  to  work  with 
us.  His  head,  too,  would  fall,  we  heard,  if  his  faith  in  the  police 
office  had  been  misplaced.  The  bubble  burst  at  last,  and,  as 
we  expected,  there  was  nothing  in  it.  The  Tribune  was  justified. 
The  opposition  reporters  were  fined  or  suspended.  Ensign  and  I 
were  made  much  in  the  office.  I  have  still  the  bulletin  in 
which  Mr.  Shanks  spoke  of  me  as  the  man  whose  work  had  done 
much  to  '^make  the  Tribune  police  reports  the  best  in  the  city.'^ 
Sweet  comfort  for  the  Dutchman  "  !  My  salary  was  raised,  but 
that  was  of  less  account.  We  had  saved  the  day  and  the  desk. 
After  that  it  was  not  all  pulling  upstream  in  Mulberry  Street. 
Nothing  in  this  world  succeeds  like  success. 

Before  that  I  had  been  once  suspended  myself  for  missing 
something  in  this  very  case.    I  was  not  to  blame,  and  therefore 

1  This  was,  as  nearly  as  I  remember,  in  the  autumn  of  1879,  the  year 
following  the  robbery. 


144         THE  MAKING  OF  AN  AMERICAN 


was  angry  and  refused  to  make  explanations.  That  night,  as 
I  sat  sulking  in  my  home  in  Brooklyn,  a  big  warehouse  fire  broke 
out  down  town.  From  our  house  on  the  hill  I  watched  it  grow 
beyond  control,  and  knew  that  the  boys  were  hard  put  to  it. 
It  was  late,  and  as  I  thought  of  the  hastening  hours,  the  police 
reporter  got  the  better  of  the  man,  and  I  hurried  down  to  take 
a  hand.  When  I  turned  up  in  the  officti  after  midnight  to  write 
the  story,  the  night  editor  eyed  me  curiously. 

^'I  thought,  Riis,  you  were  suspended,'^  he  said.  For  a 
moment  I  wavered,  smarting  under  the  injustice  of  it  all.  But 
my  note-book  reminded  me. 

^*I  am,^'  I  said,  ^'and  when  I  am  done  with  this  I  am  going 
home  till  you  send  for  me.    But  this  fire  —  can  I  have  a  desk? 

The  night  editor  got  up  and  came  over  and  shook  hands. 
"  Take  mine,'^  he  said.      There !  take  it ! 

They  sent  for  me  the  next  day. 

It  is  not  to  be  supposed  that  all  this  was  smooth  sailing. 
Along  with  the  occasional  commendations  for  battles  won  against 
^Hhe  mob"  went  constant  and  grievous  complaints  of  the  editors 
supplied  by  the  Associated  Press,  and  even  by  some  in  my  own 
office  now  and  then,  of  my  ''style."  It  was  very  bad,  according 
to  my  critics,  altogether  editorial  and  presuming,  and  not  to  be 
borne.  So  I  was  warned  that  I  must  mend  it  and  give  the  facts, 
sparing  comments.  By  that  I  suppose  they  meant  that  I  must 
write,  not  what  I  thought,  but  what  they  probably  might  think 
of  the  news.  But,  good  or  bad,  I  could  write  in  no  other  way, 
and  kept  right  on.  Not  that  I  think,  by  any  m.anners  of  means, 
that  it  was  the  best  way,  but  it  was  mine.  And  goodness  knows 
I  had  no  desire  to  be  an  editor.  I  have  not  now.  I  prefer  to 
be  a  reporter  and  deal  with  the  facts  to  being  an  editor  and  lying 
about  them.  In  the  end  the  complaints  died  out.  I  suppose 
I  was  given  up  as  hopeless. 

Perhaps  there  had  crept  into  my  reports  too  much  of  my  fight 


LIFE  IX  MULBERRY  STREET 


145 


with  the  police.  For  by  that  time  I  had  included  them  in  "the 
opposition/'  They  had  not  been  friendly  from  the  first,  and  it 
was  best  so.  I  had  them  all  in  front  then,  and  an  open  enemy 
is  better  any  day  than  a  false  friend  who  may  stab  you  in  the 
back.  In  the  quarter  of  a  century  since,  I  have  seldom  been 
on  any  other  terms  with  the  police.  I  mean  with  the  heads  of 
them.  The  rank  and  file,  the  man  with  the  night-stick  as 
Roosevelt  liked  to  call  him,  is  all  right,  if  properly  led.  He  has 
rarely  been  properly  led.  It  may  be  that,  in  that  respect  at  least, 
my  reports  might  have  been  tempered  somewhat  to  advantage. 
Though  I  donH  know.  I  prefer,  after  all,  to  have  it  out,  all  out. 
And  it  did  come  out,  and  my  mind  was  relieved;  which  was 
something. 

Speaking  of  night-sticks  reminds  me  of  seeing  General  Grant,  in 
his,  to  my  mind,  greatest  hour,  the  only  time  he  was  ever  beaten, 
and  by  a  policeman.  I  told  his  son,  Fred  Grant,  of  it  when  he 
became  a  Police  Commissioner  in  the  nineties,  but  I  do  not  think 
he  appreciated  it.  He  \\as  not  cast  in  his  great  father's 
mould.  The  occasion  I  refer  to  was  after  the  General's  second 
term  in  the  Presidenc3^  He  was  staying  at  the  Fifth  Avenue 
Hotel  when  one  morning  the  Masonic  Temple  was  burned. 
The  fire-line  was  drawn  halfway  down  the  block  toward  Fifth 
Avenue,  but  the  police  were  much  hampered  by  the  crowd,  and 
were  out  of  patience  when  I,  standing  by,  saw  a  man  in  a  great 
ulster  with  head  buried  deep  in  the  collar,  a  cigar  sticking  straight 
out,  coming  down  the  street  from  the  hotel.  I  recognized  him 
at  sight  as  General  Grant.  The  policeman  who  blocked  his 
way  did  not.  He  grabbed  him  by  the  collar,  swung  him  about, 
and,  hitting  him  a  resounding  whack  across  the  back  with  his 
club,  yelled  out :  — 

What's  the  matter  with  you?  Don't  you  see  the  fire-lines? 
Chase  yourself  out  of  here,  and  be  quick  about  it." 

The  General  said  never  a  word.    He  did  not  stop  to  argue 

L 


146 


THE  MAKING  OF  AN  AMERICAN 


the  matter.  He  had  run  up  against  a  sentinel,  and  when 
stopped  went  the  other  way.  That  was  all.  The  man  had  a 
right  to  be  there ;  he  had  none.  I  was  never  so  much  an  admirer 
of  Grant  as  since  that  day.  It  was  true  greatness.  A  smaller 
man  would  have  made  a  row,  stood  upon  his  dignity  and  de- 
manded the  punishment  of  the  policeman.  As  for  him,  there 
was  probably  never  so  badly  frightened  a  policeman  when  I  told 
him  whom  he  had  clubbed.  I  will  warrant  he  did  not  sleep 
for  a  week,  fearing  all  kinds  of  things.  No  need  of  it.  Grant 
probably  never  gave  him  a  thought. 

It  was  in  pursuit  of  the  story  of  a  Breton  nobleman  of  hoped- 
for  ancient  lineage  that  I  met  with  the  most  disheartening  set- 
back of  my  experience.  The  setting  of  the  case  was  most  allur- 
ing. The  old  baron  —  for  he  was  nothing  less,  though  in 
Minetta  Lane  he  passed  for  a  cat^s-meat  man  w^ho  peddled  his 
odd  ware  from  door  to  door  —  had  been  found  by  the  police 
sick  and  starving  in  his  wretched  cellar,  and  had  been  taken  to 
Belle vue  Hospital.  The  inevitable  de  suggested  the  story, 
and  papers  that  I  found  in  his  trunk  —  papers  most  care- 
fully guarded  and  cherished  —  told  enough  of  it  to  whet  my 
appetite  to  its  keenest  edge.  If  the  owner  could  only  be 
made  to  talk,  if  his  stubborn  family  pride  could  only  be 
overcome,  there  was  every  promise  here  of  a  sensation  by 
means  of  which  who  could  tell  but  belated  justice  might  even  be 
done  him  and  his  family  —  apart  from  the  phenomenal  trouncing 
I  should  be  administering  through  him  to  my  rivals.  Visions 
of  cor  ^piracies,  court  intrigues,  confiscations,  and  what  not, 
danced  before  my  greedy  mental  vision.  I  flew  rather  than 
walked  up  to  Bellevue  Hospital  to  offer  him  my  paper  and  pen 
in  the  service  of  right  and  of  vengeance,  only  to  find  that  I  was 
twenty-four  hours  late.  The  patient  had  already  been  trans- 
ferred to  the  Charity  Hospital  as  a  bad  case.  The  boat  had  gone  ; 
there  woiild  not  be  another  for  several  hours.    I  could  not  wait. 


LIFE  IX  MULBERRY  STREET 


147 


but  it  was  a  comfort,  at  all  events,  to  know  that  my  baron  was 
where  I  could  get  at  him  on  the  morrow.  I  dreamed  some  more 
dreams  of  happiness  as  I  went  back,  and  was  content. 

As  it  happened,  I  was  very  busy  the  next  day  and  for  several 
days  after.  The  week  was  nearly  spent  when  I  found  myself 
on  the  boat  going  up  to  the  island.  At  the  hospital  office  they 
reassured  me  with  a  queer  look.  Yes ;  my  man  was  there, 
Hkely  to  stay  there  for  a  little  w^hile.  The  doctor  would  presently 
take  me  to  see  him  on  his  rounds.  In  one  of  the  big  wards  I 
found  him  at  last,  numbered  in  the  row  of  beds  among  a  score 
of  other  human  wrecks,  a  little  old  man,  bent  and  haggard,  but 
with  some  of  the  dignity,  I  fancied,  of  his  noble  descent  upon 
his  white  and  WTinkled  brow.  He  sat  up  in  bed,  propped  by 
pillows,  and  listened  with  hungry  eyes  as,  in  French  which  I  had 
most  carefully  polished  up  for  the  occasion,  I  told  him  my  errand. 
When  at  last  I  paused,  waiting  anxiously  for  an  answer,  he  laid 
one  trembling  hand  on  mine  —  I  noticed  that  the  other  hung 
limp  from  the  shoulder  —  and  made,  as  it  seemed,  a  superhuman 
effort  to  speak ;  but  only  inarticulate,  pitiful  sounds  came  forth. 
I  looked  appealingly  at  the  doctor. 

''Dumb,'^  he  said,  and  shook  his  head.  'Taralysis  involving 
the  vocal  organs.    He  will  never  speak  again. 

And  he  didn't,  lie  was  buried  in  the  Potter's  Field  the  next 
week.  For  once  I  was  too  late.  The  story  of  the  last  of  my 
barons  remains  untold  until  this  hour. 

And  now  that  this  chapter,  somewhat  against  my  planning, 
has  become  wholly  the  police  reporter's,  I  shall  have  to  bring 
up  my  cause  celebre,  though  that  came  a  long  while  after  my 
getting  into  Mulberry  Street.  I  shall  not  have  so  good  an 
opportunity  again.  It  was  the  occasion  of  the  last  of  my  many 
battles  for  the  mastery ;  but,  more  than  that,  it  illustrates  very 
well  that  which  I  have  been  trying  to  describe  as  a  reporter's 
public  function.    We  had  been  for  months  m  dread  of  a  cholera 


148         THE  MAKING  OF  AN  AMERICAN 


scourge  that  summer,  when,  mousing  about  the  Health  De- 
partment one  day,  I  picked  up  the  weekly  analysis  of  the  Croton 
water  and  noticed  that  there  had  been  for  two  weeks  past  '^a 
trace  of  nitrites"  in  the  water.  I  asked  the  department  chemist 
what  it  was.  He  gave  an  evasive  answer,  and  my  curiosity 
was  at  once  aroused.  There  must  be  no  unknown  or  doubtful 
ingredient  in  the  water  supply  of  a  city  of  two  million  souls. 
Like  Caesar ^s  wife,  it  must  be  above  suspicion.  Within  an  hour 
I  had  learned  that  the  nitrites  meant  in  fact  that  there  had  been 
at  one  time  sew^age  contamination ;  consequently  that  we  were 
face  to  face  with  a  most  grave  problem.  How  had  the  water 
become  polluted,  and  who  guaranteed  that  it  was  not  in  that 
way  even  then,  with  the  black  death  threatening  to  cross  the 
ocean  from  Europe  ? 

I  sounded  the  warning  in  my  paper,  then  the  Evening  Sun, 
counselled  the  people  to  boil  the  water  pending  further  dis- 
coveries, then  took  my  camera  and  went  up  in  the  watershed. 
I  spent  a  week  there,  following  to  its  source  every  stream  that 
discharged  into  the  Croton  River  and  photographing  my  evi- 
dence wherever  I  found  it.  When  I  told  my  story  in  print, 
illustrated  with  the  pictures,  the  town  was  astounded.  The 
Board  of  Health  sent  inspectors  to  the  watershed,  who  reported 
that  things  were  worse  a  great  deal  than  I  had  said.  Populous 
towns  sewered  directly  into  our  drinking-water.  There  was 
not  even  a  pretence  at  decency.  The  people  bathed  and  washed 
their  dogs  in  the  streams.  The  public  town  dumps  were  on  their 
banks.  The  rival  newspapers  tried  to  belittle  the  evil  because 
their  reporters  were  beaten.  Running  water  purifies  itself, 
they  said.  So  it  does,  if  it  runs  far  enough  and  long  enough. 
I  put  that  matter  to  the  test.  Taking  the  case  of  a  town  some 
sixty  miles  out  of  New  York,  one  of  the  worst  offenders,  I  ascer- 
tained from  the  engineer  of  the  water-works  how  long  it  ordi- 
narily took  to  bring  w^ater  from  the  Sodom  reservoir  just  beyond, 


LIFE  IN  MULBERRY  STREET 


149 


down  to  the  housekeepers'  faucets  in  the  city.  Four  days,  I 
think  it  was.  Then  I  went  to  the  doctors  and  asked  them  how 
many  days  a  vigorous  cholera  bacillus  might  live  and  multiply 
in  running  water.  About  seven,  said  they.  My  case  was  made. 
There  was  needed  but  a  single  case  of  the  dreaded  scourge  in  any 
one  of  a  dozen  towns  or  villages  that  were  on  the  line  of  travel 
from  the  harbor  in  which  a  half  score  ships  were  under  quaran- 
tine, to  put  the  metropolis  at  the  mercy  of  an  inconceivable 
calamity. 

There  was  in  all  this  no  attempt  at  sensation.  It  was  simple 
fact,  as  any  one  could  see  for  himself.  The  health  inspectors^ 
report  clinched  the  matter.  The  newspapers  editorially  aban- 
doned their  reporters  to  ridicule  and  their  fate.  The  city  had 
to  purchase  a  strip  of  land  along  the  streams  wide  enough  to 
guard  against  direct  pollution.  It  cost  millions  of  dollars,  but 
it  was  the  merest  trifle  to  what  a  cholera  epidemic  would  have 
meant  to  New  York  in  loss  of  commercial  prestige,  let  alone 
human  lives.  The  contention  over  that  end  of  it  was  trans- 
ferred to  Albany,  where  the  politicians  took  a  hand.  What 
is  there  they  do  not  exploit  ?  Years  after,  meeting  one  of  them 
who  knew  my  share  in  it,  he  asked  me,  with  a  wink  and  a  con- 
fidential shove,  ^^how  much  I  got  out  of  it.''  When  I  told  him 
^'nothing,"  I  knew  that  upon  my  own  statement  he  took  me  for 
either  a  liar  or  a  fool,  the  last  being  considerably  the  worse  of 
the  two  alternatives. 

In  all  of  this  battlesome  account  I  have  said  nothing  about 
the  biggest  fight  of  all.  I  had  that  with  myself.  In  the  years 
that  had  passed  I  had  never  forgotten  the  sergeant  in  the  Church 
Street  police  station,  and  my  dog.  It  is  the  kind  of  thing  you 
do  not  get  over.  Way  back  in  my  mind  there  was  the  secret 
thought,  the  day  I  went  up  to  Mulberry  Street,  that  my  time 
was  coming  at  last.  And  now  it  had  come.  I  had  a  recognized 
place  at  Headquarters,  and  place  in  the  police  world  means 


150 


THE  MAKING  OF  AN  AMERICAN 


power,  more  or  less.  The  backing  of  the  Tribune  had  given  me 
influence.  More,  I  had  conquered  myself  in  my  fights  with  the 
police.  Enough  for  revenge !  At  the  thought  I  flushed  with 
anger.  It  has  power  yet  to  make  my  blood  boil,  the  thought 
of  that  night  in  the  station-house. 

It  was  then  my  great  temptation  came.  No  doubt  the  ser= 
geant  was  still  there.  If  not,  I  could  find  him.  I  knew  the  day 
and  hour  when  it  happened.  They  were  burned  into  my  brain. 
I  had  only  to  turn  to  the  department  records  to  find  out  who 
made  out  the  returns  on  that  October  morning  while  I  was 
walking  the  weary  length  of  the  trestle-work  bridge  across  Rari- 
tan  Bay,  to  have  him  within  reach.  There  were  a  hundred  ways 
in  which  I  could  hound  him  then,  out  of  place  and  pay,  even  as 
he  had  driven  me  forth  from  the  last  poor  shelter  and  caused 
my  only  friend  to  be  killed. 

Speak  not  to  me  of  the  sweetness  of  revenge !  Of  all  unhappy 
mortals  the  vengeful  man  must  be  the  most  wretched.  I  suf- 
fered more  in  the  anticipation  of  mine  than  ever  I  had  when 
smarting  under  the  injury,  grievous  as  the  memory  of  it  is  to 
me  even  now.  Day  after  day  I  went  across  the  street  to  begin 
the  search.  For  hours  I  lingered  about  the  record  clerk^s  room 
where  they  kept  the  old  station-house  blotters,  unable  to  tear 
myself  away.  Once  I  even  had  the  one  from  Church  Street  of 
October,  1870,  in  my  hands ;  but  I  did  not  open  it.  Even  as  I 
held  it  I  saw  another  and  a  better  way.  I  would  kill  the  abuse, 
not  the  man  w^ho  was  but  the  instrument  and  the  victim  of  it. 
For  never  was  parody  upon  Christian  charity  more  corrupting 
to  human  mind  and  soul  than  the  frightful  abomination  of  the 
police  lodging-house,  sole  provision  made  by  the  municipality 
for  its  homeless  wanderers.  Within  a  year  I  have  seen  the 
process  in  full  operation  in  Chicago,  have  heard  a  sergeant  in  the 
Harrison  Street  Station  there  tell  me,  when  my  indignation 
found  vent  in  angry  words,  that  they  ''cared  less  for  those  men 


LIFE  IN  MULBERRY  STREET  151 


and  women  than  for  the  cur  dogs  in  the  street."  Exactly  so! 
^ly  sergeant  was  of  the  same  stamp.  Those  dens,  daily  associa- 
tion with  them,  had  stamped  him.  Then  and  there  I  resolved 
to  wipe  them  out,  bodily,  if  God  gave  me  health  and  strength. 
And  I  put  the  book  away  quick  and  never  saw  it  again.  I  do 
not  know  till  this  day  who  the  sergeant  was,  and  I  am  glad  I  do 
not.    It  is  better  so. 

Of  what  I  did  to  carry  out  my  purpose,  and  how  it  was  done, 
I  must  tell  hereafter.  It  was  the  source  and  beginning  of  all 
the  work  which  justifies  the  wTiting  of  these  pages ;  and  among 
all  the  things  which  I  have  been  credited  with  doing  since  it  is 
one  of  the  few  in  which  I  really  bore  a  strong  hand.  And  yet 
it  was  not  mine  which  finally  wTought  that  great  work,  but  a 
stronger  and  better  than  mine,  Theodore  Roosevelt's.  Even 
while  I  was  writing  this  account  we  together  drove  in  the  last 
nail  in  the  coffin  of  the  bad  old  days,  by  persuading  the  Charter 
Revision  Commission  to  remove  from  the  organic  law  of  the  city 
the  clause  giving  to  the  police  the  care  of  vagrants,  which  was  the 
cause  of  it  all.  It  had  remained  over  in  the  Charter  of  the 
Greater  Xew  York  in  spite  of  our  protests.  It  was  never  the 
proper  business  of  the  police  to  dispense  charity.  They  have 
their  hands  full  with  repressing  crime.  It  is  the  mixing  of  the 
two  that  confuses  standards  and  makes  trouble  without  end  for 
those  who  receive  the  '^charity,"  and  even  more  for  those  who 
dispense  it.  You  cannot  pervert  the  first  and  finest  of  human 
instincts  without  corrupting  men  :  witness  my  sergeant  in  Church 
Street  and  his  Chicago  brother. 


CHAPTER  X 


My  Dog  is  Avbnged 

The  lilacs  blossom  under  my  window,  as  I  begin  this  chapter, 
and  the  bees  are  humming  among  them ;  the  sweet  smell  of  wild 
cherry  comes  up  from  the  garden  where  the  sunlight  lies  upon 
the  young  grass.  Robin  and  oriole  call  to  their  mates  in  the 
trees.  There  upon  the  lawn  is  Elisabeth  tending  some  linen 
laid  out  to  dry.  Her  form  is  as  lithe  and  her  step  as  light  as  in 
the  days  I  have  written  about,  grandmother  as  she  is.  I  can  see, 
though  her  back  is  turned,  the  look  of  affectionate  pride  with 
which  she  surveys  our  home,  for  I  know  well  enough  what  she 
is  thinking  of.  And  so  it  has  been ;  a  blessed,  good  home ;  how 
could  it  help  being  that  with  her  in  it?  They  say  it  is  a  sign 
one  is  growing  old  when  one's  thoughts  dwell  much  on  the  past. 
Perhaps  with  me  it  is  only  a  sign  that  the  printers  are  on  the  war- 
path. Often  w^hen  I  hear  her  sing  with  the  children  my  mind 
wanders  back  to  the  long  winter  evenings  in  those  early  years 
when  she  sat  listening  late  for  my  step.  She  sang  then  to  keep 
up  her  courage.  My  work  in  Mulberry  Street  was  at  night,  and 
she  was  much  alone,  even  as  I  was,  fighting  my  battles  there. 
She  had  it  out  with  the  homesickness  then,  and  I  think  hers  was 
a  good  deal  the  harder  fight.  I  had  the  enemy  all  in  front  where 
I  could  see  to  whack  him.  But  so  we  found  ourselves  and  each 
other,  and  it  was  worth  all  it  cost. 

Except  in  the  short  winter  days  it  was  always  broad  daylight 
when  I  came  home  from  work.    My  route  from  the  office  lay 

152 


MY  DOG  IS  AVENGED 


153 


through  the  Fourth  and  the  Sixth  wards,  the  worst  m  the  city, 
and  for  years  I  walked  every  morning  between  two  and  four 
o'clock  the  whole  length  of  Alulberry  Street,  through  the  Bend 
and  across  the  Five  Points  down  to  Fulton  Ferry.  There  were 
cars  on  the  Bowery,  but  I  liked  to  walk,  for  so  I  saw  the  slum 
when  off  its  guard.  The  instinct  to  pose  is  as  strong  there  as  it 
is  on  Fifth  Avenue.  It  is  a  human  impulse,  I  suppose.  We  all 
like  to  be  thought  well  of  by  our  fellows.  But  at  3  a.m.  the 
veneering  is  off  and  you  see  the  true  grain  of  a  thing.  So,  also, 
I  got  a  picture  of  the  Bend  upon  my  mind  which  so  soon  as  I 
should  be  able  to  transfer  it  to  that  of  the  community  would 
help  settle  with  that  pig-sty  according  to  its  deserts.  It  was  not 
fit  for  Christian  men  and  women,  let  alone  innocent  children, 
to  live  in,  and  therefore  it  had  to  go.  So  with  the  police  lodging- 
rooms,  some  of  the  worst  of  which  were  right  there,  at  the  Mul- 
berry Street  Station  and  around  the  corner  in  Elizabeth  Street. 
The  wa}^  of  it  never  gave  me  any  concern  that  I  remember.  That 
would  open  as  soon  as  the  truth  was  told.  The  trouble  was  that 
people  did  not  know  and  had  no  means  of  finding  out  for  them- 
selves. But  I  had.  Accordingly  I  went  poking  about  among 
the  foul  allej^s  and  fouler  tenements  of  the  Bend  when  they  slept 
in  their  filth,  sometimes  with  the  policemen  on  the  beat,  more 
often  alone,  sounding  the  miserj^  and  the  depravity  of  it  to  their 
depth.  I  think  a  notion  of  the  purpose  of  it  all  crept  into  the 
office,  even  while  I  was  only  half  aware  of  it  myself,  for  when, 
after  a  year's  service  at  the  police  office,  I  was  taken  with  a  long- 
ing for  the  open,  as  it  were,  and  went  to  the  city  editor  who  had 
succeeded  Mr.  Shanks  with  the  request  that  I  be  transferred  to 
general  work,  he  refused  flatly.  I  had  made  a  good  record  as  a 
police  reporter,  but  it  was  not  that. 

^'Go  back  and  stay,"  he  said.  ^'Unless  I  am  much  mistaken, 
you  are  finding  something  up  there  that  needs  you.  Wait  and 
see." 


154 


THE  MAKING  OF  AN  AMERICAN 


And  so  for  the  second  time  I  was  turned  back  to  the  task  I 
wanted  to  shirk.  Jonah  was  one  of  us  sure  enough.  Those  who 
see  only  the  whale  fail  to  catch  the  point  in  the  most  human  story 
ever  told  —  a  point,  I  am  afraid,  that  has  a  special  application 
to  most  of  us. 

I  have  often  been  asked  if  such  slumming  is  not  full  of  peril. 
No,  not  if  you  are  there  on  business.  Mere  sightseeing  at  such 
unseasonable  hours  might  easily  be.  But  the  man  who  is  sober 
and  minds  his  own  business  —  which  presupposes  that  he  has 
business  to  mind  there  —  runs  no  risk  anywhere  in  New  York, 
by  night  or  by  day.  Such  a  man  will  take  the  other  side  of  the 
street  when  he  sees  a  gang  ahead  spoiling  for  a  fight,  and  where 
he  does  go  he  will  carry  the  quiet  assumption  of  authority  that 
comes  with  the  consciousness  of  a  right  to  be  where  he  is.  That 
usually  settles  it.  There  was  perhaps  another  factor  in  my  case 
that  helped.  Whether  it  was  my  slouch  hat  and  my  spectacles, 
or  the  fact  that  I  had  been  often  called  into  requisition  to  help 
an  ambulance  sxirgeon  patch  up  an  injured  man,  the  nickname 
''Doc''  had  somehow  stuck  to  me,  and  I  was  supposed  by  many 
to  be  a  physician  connected  with  the  Health  Department.  Doc- 
tors are  never  molested  in  the  slum.  It  does  not  know  but  that 
its  turn  to  need  them  is  coming  next.  No  more  was  I.  I  can 
think  of  only  two  occasions  in  more  than  twenty  years  of  police 
reporting  when  I  was  in  actual  peril,  though  once  I  was  very 
badly  frightened. 

One  was  when  a  cry  of  murder  had  lured  me  down  Crosby 
Street  inio  a  saloon  on  the  corner  of  Jersey  Street,  where  the 
gang  of  the  neighborhood  had  just  stabbed  the  saloon-keeper 
in  a  drunken  brawl.  He  was  lying  in  a  chair  surrounded  by 
shrieking  women  when  I  ran  in.  On  the  instant  the  doors  w^ere 
slammed  and  barred  behind  me,  and  I  found  myself  on  the  battle- 
field with  the  battle  raging  unabated.  Bottles  were  flying  thick 
and  fast,  aud  the  bar  was  going  to  smash.    As  I  bent  over  the 


:\IY  DOG  IS  A^^XGED 


155 


wounded  man,  I  saw  that  he  was  done  for.  The  knife  was  even 
then  sticking  in  his  neck,  its  point  driven  into  the  backbone. 
The  instinct  of  the  reporter  came  uppermost,  and  as  I  pulled  it 
out  and  held  it  up  in  a  pause  of  the  fray,  I  asked  incautiously  :  — 
Whose  knife  is  this?" 
A  whiskey-bottle  that  shaved  within  an  inch  of  my  head,  fol- 
lowed by  an  angry  oath,  at  once  recalled  me  to  myself  and  showed 
me  my  role. 

'^You  tend  to  your  business,  you  infernal  body-snatcher,  and 
let  us  run  ours,"  ran  the  message,  and  I  understood.  I  called 
for  bandages,  a  sponge,  and  a  basin,  and  acted  the  surgeon  as 
well  as  I  could,  tr}dng  to  stanch  the  flow  of  blood,  while  the 
racket  rose  and  the  women  shrieked  louder  with  each  passing 
moment.  Through  the  turmoil  I  strained  every  nerve  to  catch 
the  sound  of  policemen^s  tramp.  It  was  hardly  three  minutes' 
run  to  the  station-house,  but  time  never  dragged  as  it  did  then. 
Once  I  thought  relief  had  come;  but  as  I  listened  and  caught 
the  wail  of  men  being  beaten  in  the  street,  I  smiled  wickedly  in 
the  midst  of  my  own  troubles,  for  the  voices  told  me  that  my 
opponents  from  headquarters,  following  on  my  track,  had  fallen 
among  thieves  :  half  the  gang  were  then  outside.  At  last,  just 
as  an  empty  keg  knocked  my  patient  from  his  chair,  the  doors 
fell  in  with  a  crash ;  the  reserves  had  come.  Their  clubs  soon 
cleared  the  air  and  relieved  me  of  my  involuntary  task,  with  my 
patient  yet  alive. 

Another  time,  turning  a  corner  in  the  small  hours  of  the  morn- 
ing, I  came  suddenly  upon  a  gang  of  drunken  roughs  ripe  for 
mischief.  The  leader  had  a  long  dirk-knife  with  which  he  play- 
fully jabbed  me  in  the  ribs,  insolently  demanding  what  I  thought 
of  it.  I  seized  him  by  the  wTist  with  as  calm  a  pretence  of 
considering  the  knife  as  I  could  summon  up,  but  really  to 
prevent  his  cutting  me.  I  felt  the  point  pricking  through  my 
clothes. 


156         THE  MAKING  OF  AN  AMERICAN 


About  two  inches  longer  than  the  law  allows/'  I  said,  spar- 
ring for  time.    '^I  think  I  will  take  that." 

I  knew  even  as  I  said  it  that  I  had  cast  the  die ;  he  held  my 
life  in  his  hand.  It  was  a  simple  question  of  which  was  the 
stronger,  and  it  was  already  decided.  Despite  my  utmost  effort 
to  stay  it,  the  point  of  the  knife  was  piercing  my  skin.  The 
gang  stood  by,  watching  the  silent  struggle.  I  knew  them  — 
the  Why-OS,  the  worst  cutthroats  in  the  citj'',  charged  with  a 
dozen  murders,  and  robberies  without  end.  A  human  life  was 
to  them,  in  the  mood  they  were  in,  worth  as  much  as  the  dirt 
under  their  feet,  no  more.  At  that  instant,  not  six  feet  behind 
their  backs.  Captain  McCullagh  —  the  same  who  afterward 
became  Chief  —  turned  the  corner  with  his  precinct  detective. 
I  gathered  all  my  strength  and  gave  the  ruffian's  hand  a  mighty 
twist  that  turned  the  knife  aside.    I  held  it  out  for  inspection. 

^'What  do  you  think  of  it.  Cap?" 

Four  brawny  fists  scattered  the  gang  to  the  winds  for  an  an- 
swer.   The  knife  was  left  in  my  hand. 

They  gave  me  no  time  to  get  frightened.  Once  when  I  really 
was  scared,  it  was  entirely  my  own  doing.  And,  furthermore, 
it  served  me  right.  It  was  on  a  very  hot  July  morning  that, 
coming  down  Mulberry  Street,  I  saw  a  big  gray  cat  sitting  on  a 
beer-keg  outside  a  corner  saloon.  It  was  fast  asleep,  and  snored 
so  loudly  that  it  aroused  my  anger.  It  is  bad  enough  to  have  a 
man  snore,  but  a  cat  — !  It  was  not  to  be  borne.  I  hauled  off 
with  my  cane  and  gave  the  beast  a  most  cruel  and  undeserved 
blow  to  teach  it  better  manners.  The  snoring  was  smothered 
in  a  yell,  the  cat  came  down  from  the  keg,  and  to  my  horror  there 
rose  from  behind  the  corner  an  angry  Celt  swearing  a  blue  streak. 
He  seemed  to  my  anguished  gaze  at  least  nine  feet  tall.  He  had 
been  asleep  at  his  own  door  when  my  blow  aroused  him,  and  it 
was  his  stocking  feet,  propped  up  on  the  keg  as  he  dozed  in  his 
chair  arou^^d  the  corner,  I  had  mistaken  for  a  gray  cat.    It  was 


MY  DOG  IS  A"\^EXGED 


157 


not  a  time  for  explanations.  I  did  the  only  thing  there  was  to 
be  done ;  I  ran.  Far  and  fast  did  I  run.  It  was  my  good  luck 
that  his  smarting  feet  kept  him  from  following,  or  I  might  not 
have  lived  to  tell  this  tale.  As  I  said,  it  served  me  right.  Per- 
haps it  is  in  the  way  of  reparation  that  I  now  support  twelve 
cats  upon  my  premises.  Three  of  them  are  clawing  at  my  study 
door  this  minute  demanding  to  be  let  in.  But  I  cannot  even 
claim  the  poor  merit  of  providing  for  them.  It  is  my  daughter 
who  runs  the  cats ;  I  merely  growl  at  and  feed  them. 

The  mention  of  Bowery  night  cars  brings  to  m}'  mind  an  epi- 
sode of  that  time  which  was  thoroughly  characteristic  of  the 
highway  that  never  sleeps."  I  was  on  the  way  down  to^n  in 
one,  with  a  single  fellow-passenger  who  was  asleep  just  inside  the 
door,  his  head  nodding  with  every  jolt  as  though  it  were  in  danger 
of  coming  off.  At  Grand  Street  a  German  boarded  the  car  and 
proffered  a  bad  half-dollar  in  payment  of  his  fare.  The  con- 
ductor bit  it  and  gave  it  back  with  a  grunt  of  contempt.  The 
German  fell  into  a  state  of  excitement  at  once. 

''Vat !"  he  shouted,  ''it  vas  pad?"  and  slapped  the  coin  down 
on  the  wooden  seat  with  aU  his  might,  that  we  might  hear  the 
ring.  It  rebounded  with  a  long  slant  and  fell  into  the  lap  of 
the  sleeping  passenger,  who  instantly  woke  up,  grabbed  the  half- 
dollar,  and  vanished  through  the  door  and  into  the  darkness, 
without  as  much  as  looking  around,  followed  by  the  desolate 
howl  of  the  despoiled  German  :  — 

"Himmel!    One  United  Shdades  half-dollar  clean  gone!" 

The  time  came  at  length  when  I  exchanged  night  work  for 
day  work,  and  I  was  not  sorry.  A  new  life  began  for  me,  with 
greatly  enlarged  opportunities.  I  had  been  absorbing  impres- 
sions up  till  then.  I  met  men  now  in  whose  companionship  they 
began  to  crystallize,  to  form  into  definite  convictions;  men  of 
learning,  of  syrapathy,  and  of  power.  My  eggs  hatched.  From 
that  time  dates  my  friendship,  priceless  to  me,  with  Dr.  Roger 


158         THE  MAKING  OF  AN  AMERICAN 


S.  Tracy,  then  a  sanitary  inspector  in  the  Health  Department, 
later  its  distinguished  statistician,  to  whom  I  owe  pretty  much 
all  the  understanding  I  have  ever  had  of  the  problems  I  have 
battled  with ;  for  he  is  very  wise,  while  I  am  rather  dull  of  wit. 
But  directly  I  get  talking  things  over  with  him,  I  brighten  right 
up.  I  met  Professor  Charles  F.  Chandler,  Major  Willard  Bul- 
lard.  Dr.  Edward  H.  Janes  —  men  to  whose  practical  wisdom 
and  patient  labors  in  the  shaping  of  the  Health  Department's 
work  the  metropolis  owes  a  greater  debt  than  it  is  aware  of ; 
Dr.  John  T.  Nagle,  whose  friendly  camicra  later  on  gave  me  some 
invaluable  lessons;  and  General  Ely  Parker,  Chief  of  the  Six 
Nations. 

I  suppose  it  was  the  fact  that  he  was  an  Indian  that  first  at- 
tracted me  to  him.  As  the  years  passed  we  became  great  friends, 
and  I  loved  nothing  better  in  an  idle  hour  than  to  smoke  a  pipe 
with  the  General  in  his  poky  little  office  at  Police  Headquarters. 
That  was  about  all  there  was  to  it,  too,  for  he  rarely  opened  his 
mouth  except  to  grunt  approval  of  something  I  was  saying. 
When,  once  in  a  while,  it  would  happen  that  some  of  his  people 
came  down  from  the  Reservation  or  from  Canada,  the  powwow 
that  ensued  was  my  dear  delight.  Three  pipes  and  about  eleven 
grunts  made  up  the  whole  of  it,  but  it  was  none  the  less  entirely 
friendly  and  satisfactory.  We  all  have  our  own  ways  of  doing 
things,  and  that  was  theirs.  He  was  a  noble  old  fellow.  His 
title  was  no  trumpery  show,  either.  It  was  fairly  earned  on  more 
than  one  bloody  field  with  Grant's  army.  Parker  was  Grant's 
military  secretary,  and  wrote  the  original  draft  of  the  surrender 
at  Appomattox,  which  he  kept  to  his  death  with  great  pride.  It 
was  not  General  Parker,  however,  but  Donehogawa,  Chief  of 
the  Senecas  and  of  the  remnant  of  the  once  powerful  Six  Nations, 
and  guardian  of  the  western  door  of  the  council  lodge,  that  ap- 
pealed to  me,  who  in  my  boyhood  had  lived  with  Leatherstocking 
and  with  Uncas  and  Chingachgook.    They  had  something  to 


MY  DOG  IS  AVENGED 


159 


do  with  my  coming  here,  and  at  last  I  had  for  a  friend  one  of  their 
kin.  I  think  he  felt  the  bond  of  sympathy  between  us  and  prized 
it,  for  he  showed  me  in  many  silent  ways  that  he  was  fond  of  me. 
There  was  about  him  an  infinite  pathos,  penned  up  there  in  his 
old  age  among  the  tenements  of  Mulberry  Street  on  the  pa^^  of  a 
second-rate  clerk,  that  never  ceased  to  appeal  to  me.  When  he 
lay  dead,  stricken  like  the  soldier  he  was  at  his  post,  some  letters 
of  his  to  Mrs.  Harriet  Converse,  the  adopted  child  of  his  tribe, 
went  to  my  heart.  They  were  addressed  to  her  on  her  travels. 
He  w^as  of  the  ^'wolf tribe,  she  a  snipe."  ''From  the  wolf  to 
the  wandering  snipe,"  they  ran.  Even  in  Mulberry  Street  he 
w^as  a  true  son  of  the  forest. 

Perhaps  the  General's  sympathies  w^ent  out  to  me  as  a  fighter. 
The  change  of  front  from  night  to  day  brought  no  let-up  on 
hostilities  in  our  camp ;  rather  the  reverse.  For  this  there  was 
good  cause:  I  had  interfered  with  long-cherished  privileges.  I. 
found  the  day  men  coming  to  work  at  all  hours  from  ten  to  twelve 
or  even  one  o'clock.  I  went  on  duty  at  eight,  and  the  immediate 
result  was  to  compel  all  the  others  to.  do  the  same.  This  was  a 
sore  grievance,  and  was  held  against  me  for  a  long  time.  The 
logical  outcome  of  the  war  it  provoked  was  to  stretch  the  day 
farther  into  the  small  hours.  Before  I  left  ]\Iulberry  Street  the 
circuit  had  been  ma.de.  The  watch  now  is  kept  up  through  the 
twenty-four  hours  without  interruption.  Like  its  neighbor  the 
Bowery,  Mulberry  Street  never  sleeps. 

There  had  been  in  1879  an  awakening  of  the  public  conscience 
on  the  tenement -house  question  w^hich  I  had  followed  with  in- 
terest, because  it  had  started  in  the  churches  that  have  always 
seemed  to  me  to  be  the  right  forum  for  such  a  discussion,  on  every 
ground,  and  most  for  their  own  sake  and  the  cause  they  stand 
for.  But  the  awakening  proved  more  of  a  sleepy  yawn  than 
real  —  like  a  man  stretching  himself  in  bed  wdth  half  a  mind  to 
get  up.    Five  years  later,  in  1884,  came  the  Tenement-House 


160 


THE  MAKING  OF  AN  AMERICAN 


Commission  which  first  brought  home  to  us  the  fact  that  the 
people  Hving  in  the  tenements  were  better  than  the  houses/' 
That  was  a  big  white  milestone  on  a  dreary  road.  From  that 
time  on  we  hear  of  '^souls''  in  the  slum.  The  property  end  of 
it  had  held  the  stage  up  till  then,  and  in  a  kind  of  self-defence,  I 
suppose,  we  had  had  to  forget  that  the  people  there  had  souls. 
Because  you  couldn't  very  well  count  oouls  as  chattels  yielding 
so  much  income  to  the  owner :  it  would  not  be  polite  toward  the 
Lord,  say.  Sounds  queer,  but  if  that  was  not  the  attitude  I 
would  like  to  know  what  it  was.  The  Commission  met  at 
Police  Headquarters,  and  I  sat  through  all  its  sessions  as  a  re- 
porter, and  heard  every  word  of  the  testimony,  which  was  more 
than  some  of  the  Commissioners  did.  Mr.  Ottendorfer  and  Mr. 
Drexel,  the  banker,  took  many  a  quiet  little  nap  when  things  were 
dull.  One  man  the  landlords,  who  had  their  innings  to  the  full, 
never  caught  off  his  guard.  His  clear,  incisive  questions,  that 
went  through  all  subterfuges  to  the  root  of  things,  were  some- 
times like  flashes  of  lightning  on  a  dark  night  discovering  the 
landscape  far  and  near.  He  was  Dr.  Felix  Adler,  whom  I  met 
there  for  the  first  time.  The  passing  years  have  given  him  a  very 
warm  place  in  my  heart.  Adler  was  born  a  Jew.  Often  when  I 
think  of  the  position  the  Christian  Church  took,  or  rather  did 
not  take,  on  a  matter  so  nearly  concerning  it  as  the  murder  of 
the  home  in  a  tenement  population  of  a  million  souls,  —  for  that 
was  what  it  came  to,  —  I  am  reminded  of  a  talk  we  had  once 
in  Dr.  Adler's  study.  I  was  going  to  Boston  to  speak  to  a 
body  Oi  clergymen  at  their  monthly  dinner  meeting.  He  had 
shortly  before  received  an  invitation  to  address  the  same  body 
on  ^'The  Personality  of  Christ,"  but  had  it  in  his  mind  not 
to  go. 

''What  will  you  tell  them?"  I  asked. 

The  Doctor  smiled  a  thoughtful  little  smile  as  he  said:  ''I 
shall  tell  them  that  the  personality  of  Christ  is  too  sacred  a 


MY  DOG  IS  AVENGED 


161 


subject  for  me  to  discuss  at  an  after-dinner  meeting  in  a  swell 
hotel." 

Does  that  help  you  to  understand  that  among  the  strongest 
of  moral  forces  in  Christian  New  York  was  and  is  Adler,  the  Jew 
or  heretic,  take  it  whichever  way  you  please  ? 

Four  years  later  the  finishing  touch  was  put  to  the  course  I 
took  with  the  Adler  Tenement-House  Commission,  when,  toward 
the  end  of  a  three-days'  session  in  Chickering  Hall  of  ministers 
of  ever}^  sect  who  were  concerned  about  the  losing  fight  the 
Church  was  waging  among  the  masses,  a  man  stood  in  the  meet- 
ing and  cried  out,  ^^How  are  these  men  and  women  to  understand 
the  love  of  God  you  speak  of,  when  they  see  only  the  greed  of 
men  ?  "  He  was  a  builder,  AKred  T.  WTiite  of  Brooklyn,  who  had 
proved  the  faith  that  was  in  him  by  building  real  homes  for  the 
people,  and  had  proved,  too,  that  they  were  a  paying  investment. 
It  was  just  a  question  whether  a  man  would  take  seven  per  cent 
and  save  his  soul,  or  twen+y-five  and  lose  it.  And  I  might  as 
well  add  here  that  it  is  the  same  story  yet.  All  our  hopes  for 
betterment,  all  our  battling  with  the  tenement-house  question, 
sum  themselves  up  in  the  effort,  since  there  are  men  yet  who 
would  take  twenty-five  per  cent  and  run  that  risk,  to  compel 
them  to  take  seven  and  save  their  souls  for  them.  I  wanted  to 
jump  up  in  my  seat  at  that  time  and  shout  Amen !  But  I  re- 
membered that  I  was  a  reporter  and  kept  still.  It  was  that  same 
winter,  however,  that  I  wrote  the  title  of  my  book,  ^^How  the 
Other  Half  Lives,"  and  copyrighted  it.  The  book  itself  did  not 
come  until  two  years  after,  but  it  was  as  good  as  written  then. 
I  had  my  text. 

It  was  at  that  Chickering  Hall  meeting  that  I  heard  the  gospel 
preached  to  the  poor  in  the  only  way  that  will  ever  reach  them. 
It  was  the  last  word  that  was  said,  and  I  have  always  believed 
that  it  was  not  exactly  in  the  plan.  I  saw  some  venerable  breth- 
ren on  the  platform,  bishops  among  them,  wince  when  Dr. 

M 


162 


THE  MAKING  OF  AN  AMERICAN 


Charles  H.  Parkhurst,  rending  some  eminently  respectable  plat- 
itudes to  shreds  and  tatters,  cried  out  for  personal  service,  loving 
touch,  as  the  key  to  it  all :  — 

What  if,  when  the  poor  leper  came  to  the  Lord  to  be  healed, 
he  had  said  to  Peter,  or  some  other  understrapper,  '  Here,  Peter, 
you  go  touch  that  fellow  and  I'll  pay  you  for  it'?  Or  what  if 
the  Lord,  when  he  came  on  earth,  had  come  a  day  at  a  time  and 
brought  his  lunch  with  him,  and  had  gone  home  to  heaven  over- 
night? Would  the  world  ever  have  come  to  call  him  brother? 
We  have  got  to  give,  not  our  old  clothes,  not  our  prayers.  Those 
are  cheap.  You  can  kneel  down  on  a  carpet  and  pray  where 
it  is  warm  and  comfortable.  Not  our  soup  —  that  is  sometimes 
very  cheap.  Not  our  money  —  a  stingy  man  will  give  money 
when  he  refuses  to  give  himself.  Just  so  soon  as  a  man  feels 
that  you  sit  down  alongside  of  him  in  loving  sympathy  with  him, 
notwithstanding  his  poor,  notwithstanding  his  sick  and  his  de- 
based, estate,  just  so  soon  you  begin  to  worm  your  way  into  the 
very  warmest  spot  in  his  life." 

It  was  plain  talk,  but  it  was  good.  They  whispered  afterward 
in  the  corners  about  the  ^4ack  of  discretion  of  that  good  man 
Parkhurst."  A  little  of  that  lack  would  go  a  long  way  toward 
cleaning  up  in  New  York  —  did  go,  not  so  many  years  after. 
Worse  shocks  than  that  were  coming  from  the  same  quarter  to 
rattle  the  dry  bones. 

Long  before  that  the  ^'something  that  needed  me"  in  Mul- 
berry Street  had  come.  I  was  in  a  death-grapple  with  my  two 
enemies,  the  police  lodging-room  and  the  Bend.  The  Adler 
Commission  had  proposed  to  break  the  back"  of  the  latter  by 
cutting  Leonard  Street  through  the  middle  of  it  —  an  expedient 
that  had  been  suggested  forty  years  before,  when  the  Five  Points 
around  the  corner  challenged  the  angry  resentment  of  the  com- 
munity. But  no  expedient  would  ever  cover  that  case.  The 
whole  slum  had  to  go.    A  bill  was  introduced  in  the  Legislature 


MY  DOG  IS  AVEXGED 


163 


to  wipe  it  out  bodily,  and  in  1888,  after  four  years  of  pulling  and 
hauling,  we  had  spunked  up  enough  to  file  maps  for  the  ''Mul- 
herry  Bend  Park."  Blessed  promise !  And  it  was  kept,  if  it 
did  take  a  prodigious  lot  of  effort,  for  right  there  decency  had  to 
begin,  or  not  at  all.  Go  and  look  at  it  to-day  and  see  what  it  is 
like. 

But  that  is  another  story.  The  other  nuisance  came  first. 
The  first  gims  that  I  have  any  record  of  were  fired  in  my  news- 
papers in  1883,  and  from  that  time  till  Theodore  Roosevelt  shut 
up  the  vile  dens  in  1895  the  battle  raged  without  intermission. 
The  guns  I  speak  of  were  not  the  first  that  were  fired  —  the}''  were 
the  first  I  fired  so  far  as  I  can  find.  For  quite  a  generation  be- 
fore that  there  had  been  protests  and  complaints  from  the  police 
surgeons,  the  policemen  themselves  who  hated  to  lodge  under 
one  roof  with  tramps,  from  citizen  bodies  that  saw  in  the  system 
an  outrage  upon  Christian  charity  and  all  decency,  but  all  with- 
out producing  any  other  effect  than  spasmodic  whitewashing 
and  the  ineffectual  turning  on  of  the  hose.  Nothing  short  of 
boiling  water  would  have  cleansed  those  dens.  Nothing  else 
came  of  it,  because  stronger  even  than  the  selfish  motive  that 
exploits  public  office  for  private  gain  is  the  deadly  inertia  in  civic 
life  which  simply  means  that  we  are  all  as  lazy  as  things  will  let 
us  be.  The  older  I  get,  the  more  patience  I  have  with  the  sinner 
and  the  less  with  the  lazy  good-for-nothing  who  is  at  the  bottom 
of  more  than  half  the  share  of  the  world's  troubles.  Give  me 
the  thief  if  need  be,  but  take  the  tramp  away  and  lock  him  up 
at  hard  labor  until  he  is  willing  to  fall  in  fine  and  take  up  his  end. 
The  end  he  lets  lie  some  one  has  got  to  carry  who  already  has 
enough . 

I  ran  to  earth  at  last  one  of  the  citizens'  bodies  that  w^ere  striv- 
ing wdth  the  nuisance,  and  went  and  joined  it.  I  will  not  say 
that  I  was  received  graciously.  I  was  a  reporter,  and  it  was 
human  nature  to  assume  that  I  was  merely  after  a  sensation; 


164 


THE  MAKING  OF  AN  AMERICAN 


and  I  did  make  a  sensation  of  the  campaign.  That  was  the  way 
to  put  life  into  it.  Page  after  page  I  printed,  now  in  this  paper, 
now  in  that,  and  when  the  round  was  completed,  went  over  the 
same  road  again.  They  winced  a  bit,  my  associates,  but  bore 
it,  egged  me  on  even.  Anything  for  a  change.  Perchance  it 
might  help.  It  didn't  then.  But  slowly  something  began  to 
stir.  The  editors  found  something  to  be  indignant  about  when 
there  was  nothing  else.  Ponderous  leaders  about  our  ^'duty 
toward  the  poor''  appeared  at  intervals.  The  Grand  Jur}^  on 
its  tours  saw  and  protested.  The  City  Hall  felt  the  sting  and 
squirmed.  I  remember  when  we  went  to  argue  with  the  Board 
of  Estimate  and  Apportionment  under  Mayor  Grant.  It  was 
my  first  meeting  with  Mrs.  Josephine  Shaw  Lowell  and  John 
Finley,  but  not  the  last  by  a  good  many,  thank  God  for  that ! 
I  had  gone  to  Boston  to  see  the  humane  way  in  which  they  were 
dealing  with  their  homeless  there.  They  gave  them  a  clean 
shirt  and  a  decent  bed  and  a  bath  —  good  way,  that,  to  limit  the 
supply  of  tramps  —  and  something  to  eat  in  the  morning,  so 
they  did  not  have  to  go  out  and  beg  the  first  thing.  It  seemed 
good  to  me,  and  it  was  good.    But  the  Mayor  did  not  think  so. 

"Boston  !  Boston !"  he  cried,  impatiently,  and  waved  us  and 
the  subject  aside.  "I  am  tired  of  hearing  always  how  they  do 
in  Boston,  and  of  the  whole  matter." 

So  were  we,  tired  enough  to  keep  it  up.  We  came  back  next 
time,  though  it  didn't  do  any  good,  and  meanwhile  the  news- 
paper broadsides  continued.  No  chance  was  allowed  to  pass  of 
telling  Lhe  people  of  New  York  what  they  were  harboring.  They 
simply  needed  to  know,  I  felt  sure  of  that.  And  I  know  now 
that  I  was  right.  But  it  takes  a  lot  of  telling  to  make  a  city 
know  when  it  is  doing  wrong.  However,  that  was  what  I  was 
there  for.  When  it  didn't  seem  to  help,  I  would  go  and  look  at 
a  stone-cutter  hammering  away  at  his  rock  perhaps  a  hundred 
times  wit.-iout  as  much  as  a  crack  showing  in  it.    Yet  at  the 


MY  DOG  IS  AVENGED 


165 


hundred  and  first  blow  it  would  split  in  two,  and  I  knew  it  was 
not  that  blow  that  did  it,  but  all  that  had  gone  before  together. 
When  m}^  fellow- workers  smiled,  I  used  to  remind  them  of  the 
Israelites  that  marched  seven  times  around  Jericho  and  blew 
their  horns  before  the  walls  fell. 

^'Well,  you  go  ahead  and  blow  yours,"  they  said ;  ^'you  have 
the  faith." 

And  I  did,  and  the  walls  did  fall,  though  it  took  nearly  twice 
seven  years.  But  they  came  down,  as  the  walls  of  ignorance 
and  indifference  must  ever}^  time,  if  you  blow  hard  enough  and 
long  enough,  with  faith  in  your  cause  and  in  your  fellow-man. 
It  is  just  a  question  of  endurance.    If  you  keep  it  up,  they  can't. 

They  began  to  give,  tliose  grim  walls,  when  typhus  fever  broke 
out  in  the  city  in  the  winter  of  1891-92.  The  wonder  was  that 
it  did  not  immediately  centre  in  the  police  lodging-rooms.  There 
they  lay,  young  and  old,  hardened  tramps  and  young  castaways, 
with  minds  and  souls  soft  as  wax  for  their  foulness  to  be  stamped 
upon,i  on  bare  floors  of  SLone  or  planks.  Dirty  as  they  came  in 
from  ever\^  vile  contact,  they  went  out  in  the  morning  to  scatter 
from  door  to  door,  where  they  begged  their  breakfast,  the  seeds 
of  festering  disease.  .  Turning  the  plank  was  ^'making  the  bed." 
T\^phus  is  a  filth-disease,  of  all  the  most  dreaded.  If  ever  it 
got  a  foothold  in  those  dens,  there  was  good  cause  for  fear.  I 
drew  up  at  once  a  remonstrance,  had  it  signed  by  representatives 
of  the  united  charitable  societies  —  some  of  them  shrugged  their 

1  The  old  cr\'  of  sensation  mongering  was  raised  more  than  once 
when  I  was  making  my  charges.  People  do  not  like  to  have  their  rest 
disturbed.  Particularly  did  the  critics  object  to  the  statement  that  there 
were  young  people  in  the  dens  ;  they  were  all  old  tramps,  they  said. 
For  an  answer  I  went  in  and  photographed  the  boys  and  girls  one 
night,  and  held  their  pictures  up  before  the  community.  In  the  Oak 
Street  Station  alone,  one  of  the  viiest.  there  were  six  as  likely  young 
fellows  as  I  ever  saw,  herded  with  forty  tramps  and  thieves.  Not  one 
of  them  would  come  out  unscathed. 


166 


THE  MAKING  OF  AN  AMERICAN 


shoulders,  but  they  signed  —  and  took  it  to  the  Health  Board. 
They  knew  the  danger  better  than  I.  But  the  time  had  not  yet 
come.  Perhaps  they  thought,  with  the  reporters,  that  I  was 
just  '^making  copy.''  For  I  made  a  ''beat"  of  the  story.  Of 
course  I  did.  We  were  fighting ;  and  if  I  could  brace  the  boy* 
up  to  the  point  of  running  their  own  campaigns  for  making  things 
better,  so  much  was  gained.  But  they  did  not  take  the  hint. 
They  just  denounced  my  ''treachery." 

I  warned  them  that  there  would  be  trouble  with  the  lodging- 
rooms,  and  within  eleven  months  the  prophecy  came  true.  The 
typhus  broke  out  there.  The  night  after  the  news  had  come  I 
took  my  camera  and  flashlight  and  made'the  round  of  the  dens, 
photographing  them  all  with  their  crowds.  Of  the  negatives 
I  had  lantern-slides  made,  and  with  these  under  my  arm  knocked 
at  the  doors  of  the  Academy  of  Medicine,  demanding  to  be  let 
in.  That  was  the  place  for  that  discussion,  it  seemed  to  me,  for 
the  doctors  knew  the  real  extent  of  the  peril  we  were  then  facing. 
Typhus  is  no  respecter  of  persons,  and  it  is  impossible  to  guard 
against  it  as  against  the  smallpox.  They  let  me  in,  and  that 
night's  doings  gave  the  cause  of  decency  a  big  push.  I  think 
that  was  the  first  time  I  told  the  real  story  of  my  dog.  I  had 
always  got  around  it  somehow ;  it  choked  me  even  then,  twenty 
years  after  and  more,  anger  boiled  up  in  me  so  at  the  recollec- 
tion. 

We  pleaded  merely  for  the  execution  of  a  law  that  had  been 
on  the  statute-books  six  years  and  over,  permitting  the  city  au- 
thorities CO  establish  a  decent  lodging-house ;  but  though  the 
police,  the  health  officials,  the  grand  jury,  the  charitable  socie- 
ties, and  about  everybody  of  any  influence  in  the  community 
fell  in  behind  the  medical  profession  in  denouncing  the  evils  that 
were,  we  pleaded  in  vain.  The  Tammarn3^  officials  at  the  City 
Hall  told  us  insolently  to  go  ahead  and  build  lodging-houses  our- 
selves ;  they  had  other  things  to  use  the  city's  money  for  than  to 


MY  DOG  IS  AVENGED 


167 


care  for  the  homeless  poor;  which,  indeed,  was  true.  The 
Charity  Organization  Society  that  stood  for  all  the  rest  gave  up 
in  discouragement  and  announced  its  intention  to  stait  a  Way- 
farer's Lodge  itself,  on  the  Boston  plan,  and  did  so.  You  see,'' 
was  the  good-by  wdth  which  my  colaborers  left  me,  ^^we  will 
never  succeed."    My  campaign  had  collapsed. 

But  even  then  we  were  winning.  Never  was  defeat  in  all  that 
time  that  did  not  in  the  end  turn  out  a  step  toward  victory. 
This  much  the  unceasing  agitation  had  effected,  though  its 
humane  purpose  made  no  impression  on  the  officials,  that  the 
accommodation  for  lodgers  in  the  station-houses  was  sensibly 
shrunk.  ^Vhere  there  had  been  forty  that  took  them  in,  there 
were  barely  two  dozen  left.  The  demand  for  separate  women's 
prisons  with  police  matrons  in  charge,  which  was  one  of  the  phases 
the  new  demand  for  decency  was  assuming,  bred  a  scarcity  of 
house-room,  and  one  by  one  the  foul  old  dens  were  closed  and 
not  reopened.  The  nuisance  was  perishing  of  itself.  Each 
time  a  piece  of  it  sloughed  off,  I  told  the  story  again  in  print, 
'^leet  we  forget."  In  another  year  reform  came,  and  with  it 
came  Roosevelt.  The  Committee  on  Vagrancy,  a  volunteer 
body  of  tlie  Charity  Organization  Society,  of  which  Mrs.  Lowell 
was  the  head  and  I  a  member,  unlimbered  its  guns  again  and 
opened  fire,  and  this  time  the  walls  came  down.  For  Tammany 
was  out. 

We  had  been  looking  the  poHce  over  by  night,  Roosevelt  and 
I.  We  had  inspected  the  lodging-rooms  while  I  went  over  the 
long  fight  with  him,  and  had  come  at  last,  at  2  a.m.,  to  the  Church 
Street  Station.  It  was  raining  outside.  The  Hght  flickered, 
cold  and  cheerless,  in  the  green  lamps  as  we  went  up  the  stone 
steps.  Involuntaril}^  I  looked  in  the  corner  for  my  little  dog; 
but  it  was  not  there,  or  any  one  who  remembered  it.  The  ser- 
geant glanced  over  his  blotter  grimly;  I  had  almost  to  pinch 
myself  to  make  sure  I  was  not  shivering  in  a  linen  duster,  wet 


168 


THE  MAKIXCx  OF  AX  AMERICAN 


to  the  skin.  Down  the  cellar  steps  to  the  men's  lodging-room 
I  led  the  President  of  the  Police  Board.  It  was  imchanged  — 
just  as  it  was  the  da}^  I  slept  there.  Three  men  lay  stretched  at 
full  length  on  the  dirty  planks,  two  of  them  3^oung  lads  from  the 
country.  Standing  there,  I  told  Air.  Roosevelt  my  own  story. 
He  turned  alternately  red  and  white  with  anger  as  he  heard  it . 

"  Did  they  do  that  to  you  ?  "  he  asked  when  I  had  ended.  For 
an  answer  I  pointed  to  the  young  lads  then  asleep  before  him. 

^'I  was  like  this  one,''  I  said. 

He  struck  his  clenched  fists  together.  '^I  will  smash  them 
to-morrow." 

He  was  as  good  as  his  word.  The  yeTj  next  day  the  Pohce 
Board  took  the  matter  up.  Provision  was  made  for  the  homeless 
on  a  barge  in  the  East  River  until  plans  could  be  perfected  for 
sifting  the  tramps  from  the  unfortunate;  and  within  a  week, 
on  recommendation  of  .the  Chief  of  Pohce,  orders  were  issued  to 
close  the  doors  of  the  pohce  lodging-rooms  on  February  15,  1896, 
never  again  to  be  unbarred. 

The  battle  was  won.  The  murder  of  my  dog  was  avenged, 
and  forgiven,  after  twenty-five  years.  The  ^tIIow  newspapers, 
with  the  true  instinct  that  made  them  ever  recognize  in  Roose- 
velt the  implacable  enemy  of  all  the}^  stood  for,  printed  cartoons 
of  homeless  men  shivering  at  a  barred  door  closed  by  order  of 
T.  Roosevelt"  ;  but  they  did  not,  after  all,  understand  the  man 
they  were  attacking.  That  the  thing  w^as  right  was  enough  for 
him.  Their  shafts  went  wdde  of  the  mark,  or  fell  harmless. 
The  tramps  for  whom  Xew  York  had  been  a  paradise  betook 
themselves  to  other  towns  not  so  discerning  —  went  to  Chicago, 
where  the  same  wicked  system  was  in  operation  until  last  spring, 
3s  yet  for  all  I  know  —  and  the  honestly  homeless  got  a  chance. 
A  few  tender-hearted  and  soft-headed  citizens,  of  the  kind  w^ho 
ever  obstruct  progress  by  getting  some  verv^  excellent  but  vagrant 
impulses  ndxed  up  \vdth  a  lack  of  common  sense,  wasted  their 


MY  DOG  IS  AVENGED 


169 


sympath}^  upon  the  departing  hobo,  but  soon  tired  of  it.  I  re- 
member the  case  of  one  tramp  whose  beat  was  m  the  block  in 
Thirty-fifth  Street  in  which  Dr.  Parkhurst  hves.  He  was  ar- 
rested for  insolence  to  a  housekeeper  who  refused  him  food.  The 
magistrate  discharged  him,  with  some  tearful  remarks  about  the 
world's  cruelty  and  the  right  of  a  man  to  be  poor  \^dthout  being 
accounted  a  criminal.  Thus  encouraged,  the  tramp  went  right 
back  and  broke  the  windows  of  the  house  that  had  repelled  him. 
I  presume  he  is  now  in  the  city  by  the  lake  holding  up  people 
who  offend  him  by  being  more  industrious  and  consequently 
more  prosperous  than  he. 

For  the  general  results  of  the  victory  so  laboriously  achieved 
I  must  refer  to  A  Ten  Years'  War,"  ^  in  which  I  endeavored  to 
sum  up  the  situation  as  I  saw  it.  They  are  not  worked  out  yet 
to  the  full.  The  most  important  link  is  missing.  That  is  to 
be  a  farm-school  which  shall  sift  the  young  idler  from  the  heap 
of  chaff,  and  win  him  back  to  habits  of  industry  and  to  the  world 
of  men.  It  will  come  when  moral  purpose  has  been  reestab- 
lished at  the  City  Hall.  I  have  not  set  out  here' to  discuss  re- 
form and  its  merits,  but  merely  to  point  out  that  the  way  of  it, 
the  best  way  of  bringing  it  on  —  indeed,  the  only  wa}^  that  is 
always  open  —  is  to  make  the  facts  of  the  wrong  plain.  And, 
having  said  that,  I  have  put  the  reporter  where  he  belongs  and 
answered  the  question  why  I  have  never  wanted  executive  office 
and  never  will. 

And  now,  in  taking  I'^ave  of  this  subject,  of  which  I  hope  I 
may  never  hear  again,  for  it  has  plagued  me  enough  and  had  its 
fuH  share  of  my  life,  is  there  not  one  ray  of  brightness  that  falls 
athwart  its  gloom?  Were  they  all  bad,  those  dens  I  hated,  yes, 
hated,  with  the  shame  and  the  sorrow  and  hopeless  surrender 
they  stood  for?  Was  there  not  one  glimpse  of  mercy  that  dwells 
in  the  memory  with  redeeming  touch?    Yes,  one.    Let  it  stand 

1  Now,  "The  Battle  with  the  Slum." 


170         THE  MAKING  OF  AN  AMERICAN 


as  testimony  that  on  the  brink  of  hell  itself  human  nature  is  not 
wholly  lost.  There  is  still  the  spark  of  His  image,  however  over- 
laid by  the  slum.  And  let  it  forever  wipe  out  the  score  of  my 
dog,  and  mine.  It  was  in  one  of  the  worst  that  I  came  upon  a 
young  girl,  pretty,  innocent  —  Heaven  knows  how  she  had 
landed  there.  She  hid  her  head  in  her  apron  and  wept  bitterly 
with  the  shame  of  the  thing.  Around  her  half  a  dozen  old  hags, 
rum-sodden  and  foul,  camped  on  the  stone  floor.  As  in  passing 
I  stooped  over  the  weeping  girl,  one  of  them,  thinking  I  was 
one  of  the  men  about  the  place,  and  misunderstanding  my  pur- 
pose, sprang  between  us  like  a  tigress  and  pushed  me  back. 

^^Not  her!''  she  cried,  and  shook  her  fist  at  me;  ^^not  her! 
It  is  all  right  with  us.  We  are  old  and  tough.  But  she  is  young 
and  don't  you  dare !" 

I  went  out  and  stood  under  the  stars,  and  thanked  God  that 
I  was  born.  Only  tramps !  It  had  been  dinned  into  my  ears 
until  I  said  it  myself,  God  forgive  me !  Aye,  that  was  what  we 
had  made  of  them  \^ith  our  infernal  machinery  of  rum-shop, 
tenement,  dive,  and  —  this  place.  With  Christian  charity  in- 
stead, what  might  they  not  have  been? 


CHAPTER  XI 


The  Bend  is  Laid  by  the  Heels 

If  there  be  any  to  whom  the  travail  through  which  we  have 
just  come  seems  Uke  a  mighty  tempest  in  a  teapot,  let  him  quit 
thinking  so.  It  was  not  a  small  matter.  To  be  sure,  the  wTong 
could  have  been  undone  in  a  day  by  the  authorities,  had  they 
been  so  minded.  That  it  was  not  undone  was  largely,  and 
illogically,  because  no  one  had  a  word  to  say  in  its  defence. 
When  there  are  two  sides  to  a  thing,  it  is  not  difficult  to  get  at 
the  right  of  it  in  an  argument,  and  to  carry  public  opmion  for  the 
right.  But  when  there  is  absolutely  nothing  to  be  said  against 
a  proposed  reform,  it  seems  to  be  human  nature  —  American 
human  nature,  at  all  events  —  to  expect  it  to  carry  itself  through 
with  the  general  good  wishes  but  no  particular  lift  from  any  one. 
It  is  a  very  chariiaing  expression  of  our  faith  in  the  power  of  the 
right  to  make  its  way,  only  it  is  all  wTong :  it  wdll  not  make  its 
way  in  the  generation  that  sits  by  to  see  it  move.  It  has  got  to 
be  moved  along,  like  even^thing  else  in  this  world,  by  men.  That 
is  how  we  take  title  to  the  name.  That  is  what  is  the  matter 
with  haK  our  dead-letter  laws.  The  other  half  were  just  still- 
born. It^  is  so,  at  this  moment,  with  the  children's  playgrounds 
in  New  York.  Probably  all  thinking  people  subscribe  to-da}^  to 
the  statement  that  it  is  the  business  of  the  municipality  to  give 
its  children  a  chance  to  play,  just  as  much  as  to  give  them  schools 
to  go  to.    Everybody  applauds  it.    The  authorities  do  not 

171 


172 


THE  MAKING  OF  AN  AMERICAN 


question  it ;  but  still  they  do  not  provide  playgrounds.  Private 
charity  has  to  keep  a  beggarly  half-dozen  going  where  there 
ought  to  be  forty  or  fifty,  as  a  matter  of  right,  not  of  charity. 
Call  it  official  conservatism,  inertia,  treachery,  call  it  by  soft 
names  or  hard ;  in  the  end  it  comes  to  this,  I  suppose,  that  it  is 
the  whetstone  upon  which  our  purpose  is  sharpened,  and  in  that 
sense  we  have  apparently  got  to  be  thankful  for  it.  So  a  man 
may  pummel  his  adversary  and  accept  him  as  a  means  of  grace 
at  the  same  time.  If  there  were  no  snags,  there  would  be  no 
wits  to  clear  them  away,  or  strong  arms  to  wield  the  axe.  It  was 
the  same  story  with  the  Mulberry  Bend.  Until  the  tramp  lodg- 
ing-houses were  closed,  until  the  Bend  was  gone,  it  seemed  as  if 
progress  were  flat  down  impossible.  As  I  said,  decency  had  to 
begin  there,  or  not  at  all.  ^ 

Before  I  tackle  the  Bend,  perhaps  I  had  better  explain  how  I 
came  to  take  up  photographing  as  a  —  no,  not  exactly  as  a  pas- 
time. It  was  never  that  with  me.  I  had  use  for  it,  and  beyond 
that  I  never  went.  1  am  downright  sorry  to  confess  here  that 
I  am  no  good  at  all  as  a  photographer,  for  I  w^ould  like  to  be. 
The  thing  is  a  constant  marvel  to  me,  and  an  unending  delight. 
To  watch  the  picture  come  out  upon  the  plate  that  was  blank 
before,  and  that  saw  with  me  for  perhaps  the  merest  fraction  of 
a  second,  maybe  months  before,  the  thing  it  has  never  for- 
gotten, is  a  new  miracle  every  time.  If  I  were  a  clergyman 
I  would  practice  photography  and  preach  about  it.  But  I  am 
jealous  of  the  miracle.  I  do  not  want  it  explained  to  me  in 
terms  of  HO2  or  such  like  formulas,  learned,  but  so  hopelessly 
unsatisfying.  I  do  not  want  my  butterfly  stuck  on  a  pin  and 
put  in  a  glass  case.  I  want  to  see  the  sunlight  on  its  wings  as  it 
flits  from  flower  to  flower,  and  I  don't  care  a  rap  what  its  Latin 
name  may  be.  Anyway,  it  is  not  its  name.  The  sun  and  the 
floww  and  the  butterfly  know  that.  The  man  who  sticks  a  pin 
in  it  does  not,  and  never  will,  for  he  knows  not  its  language. 


THE  BEXD  IS  LAID  BY  THE  HEELS 


173 


Only  the  poet  does  among  men.  So,  3^011  see,  I  am  disqualified 
from  being  a  photographer.  Also,  I  am  clumsy,  and  impatient 
of  details.  The  axe  was  ever  more  to  my  liking  than  the  graving- 
tool.  I  have  lived  to  see  the  day  of  the  axe  and  enjoy  it,  and  now 
I  rejoice  in  the  coming  of  the  men  and  women  who  know;  the 
Jane  Addamses,  who  to  heart  add  knowledge  and  training,  and 
with  gentle  hands  bind  up  wounds  which,  alas!  too  often  I 
struck.  It  is  as  it  should  be.  I  only  ^vish  they  would  see  it  and 
leave  me  out  for  my  sins. 

But  there !  I  started  out  to  tell  about  how  I  came  to  be  a 
photographer,  and  here  I  am,  off  on  the  subject  of  philanthropy 
and  social  settlements.  To  be  precise,  then,  I  began  taking 
pictures  by  proxy.  It  was  upon  my  midnight  trips  with  the 
sanitary  police  that  the  wish  kept  cropping  up  in  me  that  there 
were  some  way  of  putting  before  the  people  what  I  saw  there. 
A  drawing  might  have  done  it,  but  I  cannot  draw,  never  could. 
There  are  certain  sketches  of  mine  now  on  record  that  always 
arouse  the  boisterous  hilarity  of  the  family.  They  were  made 
for  the  instruction  of  our  first  baby  in  wolf-lore,  and  I  know  they 
were  highly  appreciated  by  him  at  the  time.  Maybe  the  fashion 
in  wolves  has  changed  since.  But,  an  way,  a  drawing  would 
not  have  been  evidence  of  the  kind  I  wanted.  We  used  to  go  in 
the  small  hours  of  the  morning  into  the  worst  tenements  to 
count  noses  and  see  if  the  law  against  overcrowding  was  violated, 
and  the  sights  I  saw  there  gripped  my  heart  until  I  felt  that  I 
must  tell  of  them,  or  bu^st,  or  turn  anarchist,  or  something. 
''A  man  may  be  a  man  even  in  a  palace"  in  modern  Xew  York 
as  in  ancient  Rome,  but  not  in  a  slum  tenement.  So  it  seemed 
to  me,  and  in  anger  I  looked  around  for  something  to  strike  off 
his  fetters  with.    But  there  was  nothing. 

I  wrote,  but  it  seemed  to  make  no  impression.  One  morning, 
scanning  my  newspaper  at  the  breakfast  table,  I  put  it  down 
with  an  outcry  that  startled  my  wife,  sitting  opposite.  There 


174 


THE  MAKING  OF  AN  AMERICAN 


it  wa9,  the  thing  I  had  been  looking  for  all  those  years.  A  four- 
line  despatch  from  somewhere  in  Germany,  if  I  remember  right, 
^  had  it  all.  A  way  had  been  discovered,  it  ran,  to  take  pictures 
by  flashlight.  The  darkest  corner  might  be  photographed  that 
way.  I  went  to  the  office  full  of  the  idea,  and  lost  no  time  in 
looking  up  Dr.  John  T.  Nagle,  at  the  time  in  charge  of  the 
Bureau  of  Vital  Statistics  in  the  Health  Department,  to  tell  him 
of  it.  Dr.  Nagle  was  an  amateur  photographer  of  merit  and  a 
good  fellow  besides,  who  entered  into  my  plans  with  great  readi- 
ness. The  news  had  already  excited  much  interest  among  New 
York  photographers,  professional  and  otherwise,  and  no  time 
was  lost  in  communicating  with  the  other  side.  Within  a  fort- 
night a  raiding  party  composed  of  Dr.  Henry  G.  Piffard  and 
Richard  Hoe  Lawrence,  two  distinguished  amateurs,  Dr.  Nagle 
and  myself,  and  sometimes  a  policeman  or  two,  invaded  the  East 
Side  by  night,  bent  on  letting  in  the  light  where  it  was  so  much 
needed. 

At  least  that  was  my  purpose.  To  the  photographers  it  was 
a  voyage  of  discovery  of  the  greatest  interest ;  but  the  interest 
centred  in  the  camera  and  the  flashlight.  The  police  went 
along  from  curiosity;  sometimes  for  protection.  For  that  they 
were  hardly  needed.  It  is  not  too  much  to  say  that  our  party 
carried  terror  wherever  it  went.  The  flashlight  of  those  days  was 
contained  in  cartridges  fired  from  a  revolver.  The  spectacle  of 
half  a  dozen  strange  men  invading  a  house  in  the  midnight  hour 
armed  with  big  pistols  which  they  shot  off  recklessly  was  hardly 
reassuring,  however  sugary  our  speech,  and  it  was  not  to  be 
wondered  at  if  the  tenants  bolted  through  windows  and  down 
fire-escapes  wherever  we  went.  But  as  no  one  was  murdered, 
things  calmed  down  after  a  while,  though  months  after  I  found 
the  recollection  of  our  visits  hanging  over  a  Stanton  Street  block 
like  a  nightmare.  We  got  some  good  pictures;  but  very  soon 
the  slun:  and  the  awkward  hours  palled  upon  the  amateurs.  I 


THE  BEXD  IS  LAID  BY  THE  HEELS  L75 


found  myself  alone  just  when  I  needed  help  most.  I  had 
made  out  by  the  flashlight  possibilities  my  companions  little 
dreamed  of. 

I  hired  a  professional  photogi\apher  next  whom  I  found  in  dire 
straits.  He  was  even  less  willing  to  get  up  at  2  a.m.  than  my 
friends  who  had  a  good  excuse.  He  had  none,  for  I  paid  him 
well.  He  repaid  me  by  trying  to  sell  m}'  photographs  behind 
my  back.  I  had  to  reple\an  the  negatives  to  get  them  away  from 
him.  He  was  a  pious  man,  I  take  it,  for  when  I  tried  to  have 
him  photograph  the  waifs  in  the  baby  nursery  at  the  Five  Points 
House  of  Industry,  as  the}^  were  sa^^ng  their  '^Xow  I  lay  me 
down  to  sleep,"  and  the  plate  came  out  blank  the  second  time, 
he  owmed  up  that  it  was  his  doing :  it  went  against  his  prmciples 
to  take  a  picture  of  any  one  at  prayers.  So  I  had  to  get  another 
man  with  some  trouble  and  expense.  But  on  the  whole  I  think 
the  experience  was  worth  what  it  cost.  The  spectacle  of  a  man 
prevented  by  rehgious  scruples  from  photographing  children  at 
prayers,  while  plotting  at  the  same  time  to  rob  his  employer,  has 
been  a  kind  of  chart  to  me  that  has  piloted  me  through  more  than 
one  quagmire  of  queer  human  nature.  Nothing  could  stump  me 
after  that.  The  man  was  just  as  sincere  in  the  matter  of  his 
scruple  as  he  was  rascally  in  his  business  dealings  with  me. 

There  was  at  last  but  one  way  out  of  it ;  namel}^,  for  me  to  get 
a  camera  myself.  This  I  did,  and  with  a  dozen  plates  took 
myself  up  the  Sound  to  the  Potter's  Field  on  its  desert  island  to 
make  my  first  observations.  There  at  least  I  should  be  alone, 
with  no  one  to  bother  me.  And  I  wanted  a  picture  of  the  open 
trench.  I  got  it,  too.  Wlien  I  say  that  with  the  sunHght  of  a 
January  day  on  the  white  snow  I  exposed  that  extra-quick 
instantaneous  plate  first  for  six  seconds,  then  for  twelve,  to  make 
sure  I  got  the  picture, ^  and  then  put  the  plate-holder  back  among 

^  1  Men  are  ever  prcne  to  doubt  what  they  cannot  understand.  With 
all  the  accumulated  information  on  the  subject,  even  to  this  day.  wheu 


176 


THE  MAKING  OF  AN  AMERICAN 


the  rest  so  that  I  did  not  know  which  was  which,  amateur 
photographers  will  understand  the  situation.  I  had  to  develop 
the  whole  twelve  to  get  one  picture.  That  was  so  dark,  almost 
black,  from  over-exposure  as  to  be  almost  hopeless.  But  where 
there  is  life  there  is  hope,  if  you  can  apply  that  maxim  to  the 
Potter's  Field,  where  there  are  none  but  dead  men.  The  very 
blackness  of  my  picture  proved  later  on,  when  I  came  to  use  it 
with  a  magic  lantern,  the  taking  feature  of  it.  It  added  a  gloom 
to  the  show  more  realistic  than  any  the  utmost  art  of  professional 
skill  might  have  attained. 

So  I  became  a  photographer,  after  a  fashion,  and  thereafter 
took  the  pictures  myself.  I  substituted  a  frying-pan  for  the 
revolver,  and  flashed  the  light  on  that.  It  seemed  more  home- 
like. But,  as  I  said,  I  am  clumsy.  Twice  I  set  fire  to  the  house 
with  the  apparatus,  and  once  to  m3^self .  I  blew  the  light  into  my 
own  eyes  on  that  occasion,  and  only  my  spectacles  saved  me  from 
being  blinded  for  life.  For  more  than  an  hour  after  I  could  see 
nothing  and  was  led  about  by  my  companion,  helpless.  Photo- 
graphing Joss  in  Chinatown  nearly  caused  a  riot  there.  It  seems 
that  it  was  against  their  rehgious  principles.  Peace  was  made 
only  upon  express  assurance  being  given  the  guardians  of  Joss 
that  his  picture  would  be  hung  in  the  ^'gallery  at  Pohce  Head- 
quarters.They  took  it  as  a  compliment.  The  gallery at 
Headquarters  is  the  rogues'  gallery,  not  generally  much  desired. 
Those  Chinese  are  a  queer  lot,  but  when  I  remembered  my 
Christian  friend  of  the  nursery  I  did  not  find  it  in  me  to  blame 
them.  Once,  when  I  was  taking  pictures  about  Hell's  Kitchen, 
I  was  confronted  by  a  wild-looking  man  with  a  club,  who  re- 
quired me  to  subscribe  to  a  general  condemnation  of  reporters 
as  ^'hardly  fit  to  be  flayed  alive,"  before  he  would  let  me  go ;  the 

it  comes  to  taking  a  snap-shot,  at  the  last  moment  I  weaken  and  take 
it  under  protest,  refusing  to  believe  that  it  can  be.  A  little  more  faith 
would  make  a  much  better  photographer  of  me. 


THE  BEND  IS  LAID  BY  THE  HEELS  177 


which  I  did  with  a  right  good  will,  though  wdth  somewhat  of  a 
mental  reservation  in  favor  of  my  rivals  in  Mulberry  Street,  who 
just  then  stood  in  need  of  special  correction. 

\\Tiat  with,  one  thing  and  another,  and  in  spite  of  all  obstacles, 
I  got  my  pictures,  and  put  some  of  them  to  practical  use  at  once. 
I  recall  a  midnight  expedition  to  the  jMulberry  Bend  with  the 
sanitary  police  that  had  turned  up  a  couple  of  characteristic 
cases  of  overcrowding.  In  one  instance  two  rooms  that  should 
at  most  have  held  four  or  five  sleepers  were  found  to  contain 
fifteen,  a  week-old  baby  among  them.  Most  of  them  were 
lodgers  and  slept  there  for  '^five  cents  a  spot."  There  was  no 
pretence  of  beds.  AVhen  the  report  was  submitted  to  the  Health 
Board  the  next  day,  it  did  not  make  much  of  an  impression  — 
these  things  rarely  do,  put  in  mere  words  —  until  my  negatives, 
still  dripping  from  the  dark-room,  came  to  reenforce  them. 
From  them  there  was  no  appeal.  It  was  not  the  only  instance 
of  the  kind  by  a  good  many.  Neither  the  landlord's  protests 
nor  the  tenant's  plea  '^went"  in  face  of  the  camera's  e\ddence, 
and  I  was  satisfied. 

I  had  at  last  an  ally  in  the  fight  \\ith  the  Bend.  It  was 
needed,  worse  even  than  in  the  campaign  against  the  police 
lodging-houses,  for  in  that  we  were  a  company;  in  the  Bend  I 
w^as  alone.  From  the  day  —  I  think  it  was  in  the  winter  of  1886 
—  when  it  was  officially  doomed  to  go  by  act  of  legislature  until 
it  did  go,  nine  years  later,  I  cannot  remember  that  a  cat  stirred 
to  urge  it  on.  Whether  it  was  that  it  had  been  bad  so  long  that 
people  thought  it  could  not  be  otherwise,  or  because  the  Five 
Points  had  taken  all  the  reform  the  Sixth  Ward  had  coming  to  it, 
or  because,  by  a  sort  of  tacit  consent,  the  whole  matter  was  left 
to  me  as  the  recognized  Mulberry  Bend  crank  —  whichever  it 
was,  this  last  was  the  practical  turn  it  took.  I  was  left  to  fight 
it  out  by  myself.  ^Iiich  being  so,  1  laid  in  a  stock  of  dr}^  plates 
and  buckled  to. 

N 


178         THE  MAKING  OF  AN  AMERICAN 


The  Bend  was  a  much  jollier  adversary  than  the  police  lodging- 
houses.  It  kicked  back.  It  did  not  have  to  be  dragged  into  the 
discussion  at  intervals,  but  crowded  in  unbidden.  In  the  twenty 
years  of  my  acquaintance  with  it  as  a  reporter  I  do  not  believe 
there  was  a  week  in  which  it  was  not  heard  from  in  the  pohce 
reports,  generally  in  connection  with  a  crime  of  violence,  a 
murder  or  a  stabbing  affray.  It  was  usually  on  Sunday,  when 
the  Italians  who  lived  there  were  idle  and  quarrelled  over  their 
cards.  Every  fight  was  the  signal  for  at  least  two  more,  some- 
times a  dozen,  for  they  clung  to  their  traditions  and  met  all 
efforts  of  the  police  to  get  at  the  facts  with  their  stubborn  ^'fix 
him  myself.'^  And  when  the  detectives  had  given  up  in  dis- 
may and  the  man  who  was  cut  had  got  out  of  the  hospital, 
pretty  soon  there  was  news  of  another  fight,  and  the  feud  had 
been  sent  on  one  step.  By  far  the  most  cheering  testimony  that 
our  Italian  is  becoming  one  of  us  came  to  me  a  year  or  two  ago 
in  the  evidence  that  on  two  occasions  Mulberry  Street  had 
refused  to  hide  a  murderer  even  in  his  own  village. ^  That  was 
conclusive.  It  was  not  so  in  those  days.  So,  between  the 
vendetta,  the  mafia,  the  ordinary  neighborhood  feuds,  and  the 
Bend  itself,  always  picturesque  if  outrageously  dirty,  it  was  not 
hard  to  keep  it  in  the  foreground.  My  scrap-book  from  the 
year  1883  to  1896  is  one  running  comment  on  the  Bend  and  upon 
the  official  indolence  that  delayed  its  demolition  nearly  a  decade 
after  it  had  been  decreed.  But  it  all  availed  nothing  to  hurry 
up  things,  until,  in  a  swaggering  moment,  after  four  years  of 
that  sort  of  thing,  one  of  the  City  Hall  officials  condescended  to 

1  The  Italians  here  live  usually  grouped  by  "villages,"  that  is,  those 
from  the  same  community  with  the  same  patron  saint  keep  close  to- 
gether. The  saint's  name-day  is  their  local  holiday.  If  the  police 
want  to  find  an  Italian  scamp,  they  find  out  first  from  what  village  he 
hails,  then  it  is  a  simple  matter,  usually,  to  find  where  he  is  located  in 
the  city.. 


THE  BEND  IS  LAID  BY  THE  HEELS 


179 


inform  me  of  the  real  cause  of  the  delay.  It  was  shnply  that 
''no  one  down  there  had  been  taking  any  interest  in  the  thing. 

I  could  not  have  laid  it  out  for  him  to  suit  my  case  bettei 
than  he  did.  It  was  in  the  silly  season,  and  the  newspapers  fell 
greedily  upon  the  sensation  I  made.  The  Bend,  moreover, 
smelled  rather  worse  than  usual  that  August.  They  made  ''the 
people^s  cause their  own,  and  shouted  treason  until  the  com- 
mission charged  with  condemning  the  Bend  actually  did  meet 
and  greased  its  wheels.  But  at  the  next  turn  the}^  were  down 
in  a  rut  again,  and  the  team  had  to  be  prodded  some  more.  It 
had  taken  two  years  to  get  a  map  of  the  proposed  park  filed  under 
the  law  that  authorized  the  lajdng  out  of  it.  The  commission 
consumed  nearly  six  years  in  condemning  the  forty-one  lots  of 
property,  and  charged  the  city  S45,498.60  for  it.  The  Bend 
itself  cost  a  million,  and  an  assessment  of  half  a  miUion  was  laid 
upon  surrounding  property  for  the  supposed  benefit  of  making 
it  over  from  a  pig-sty  into  a  park.  Those  property-owners 
knew  better.  They  hired  a  lawyer  who  in  less  than  six  weeks 
persuaded  the  Legislature  that  it  was  an  injury,  not  a  benefit. 
The  town  had  to  foot  the  whole  bill.  But  at  last  it  owTied  the 
Bend. 

Instead  of  destroying  it  neck  and  crop,  it  settled  down  com- 
placently to  collect  the  rents;  that  is  to  say,  such  rents  as  it 
could  collect.  A  good  many  of  the  tenants  refused  to  pay,  and 
lived  rent  free  for  a  year.  It  was  a  rare  chance  for  the  reporter, 
and  I  did  not  miss  it.  Th^  city  as  landlord  in  the  Bend  was  fair 
game.  The  old  houses  came  down  at  last,  and  for  a  twelve- 
month, while  a  reform  government  sat  at  the  City  Hall,  the 
three-acre  lot  lay,  a  veritable  slough  of  despond  filled  with 
unutterable  nastiness,  festering  in  the  sight  of  men.  Xo  amount 
of  prodding  seemed  able  to  get  it  out  of  that,  and  all  the  while 
mone}^  given  for  tht  relief  of  the  people  was  going  to  waste  at 
the  rate  of  a  milhon  dollars  a  year.    The  Small  Parks  Act  of 


180         THE  MAKING  OF  AN  AMERICAN 


1887  appropriated  that  amount,  and  it  was  to  be  had  for  the 
asking.  But  no  one  who  had  the  authority  asked,  and  as  the 
appropriation  was  not  cumulative,  each  passing  year  saw  the 
loss  of  just  so  much  to  the  cause  of  decency  that  was  waiting 
without.  Eight  milUons  had  been  thrown  away  when  they 
finally  came  to  ask  a  million  and  a  half  to  pay  for  the  Mulberry 
Bend  park,  and  then  they  had  to  get  a  special  law  and  a  special 
appropriation  because  the  amount  was  more  than  "a  million  in 
one  year/^  This  in  spite  of  the  fact  that  we  were  then  in  the 
Christmas  holidays  with  one  year  just  closing  and  the  other 
opening,  each  with  its  unclaimed  appropriation.  I  suggested 
that  to  the  powers  that  were,  but  they  threw  up  their  hands : 
that  would  have  been  irregular  and  quite  without  precedent. 
Oh,  for  irregularity  enough  to  throttle  precedent  finally  and  for 
good !  It  has  made  more  mischief  in  the  world,  I  verily  believe, 
than  all  the  other  lawbreakers  together.  At  the  very  outset  it 
had  wrecked  my  hopes  of  getting  the  first  school  playground  in 
New  York  pli^nted  in  the  Bend  by  simply  joining  park  and  school 
together.  There  was  a  public  school  in  the  block  that  went  with 
the  rest.  The  Small  Parks  Law  expressly  provided  Tor  the  con- 
struction of  ^'such  and  so  many"  buildings  for  the  comfort, 
health,  and  ^instruction"  of  the  people,  as  might  be  necessary. 
But  a  school  in  a  park !  The  thing  had  never  been  heard  of.  It 
would  lead  to  conflict  between  two  departments !  And  to  this 
day  there  is  no  playground  in  the  Mulberry  Bend,  though  the 
school  is  right  opposite. 

It  was,  nevertheless,  that  sort  of  thing  that  lent  the  in- 
spiration which  in  the  end  made  the  old  Bend  go.  It  was  when, 
in  the  midst  of  the  discussion,  they  showed  me  a  check  for  three 
cents,  hung  up  and  framed  in  the  Comptroller's  office  as  a  kind  of 
red-tape  joss  for  the  clerks  to  kow-tow  to,  I  suppose.  They  were 
part  of  the  system  it  glorified.  The  three  cents  had  miscarried 
in  the  p'^rchase  of  a  school  site,  and,  when  the  error  was  found, 


THE  BEND  IS  LAID  BY  THE  HEELS  181 


were  checked  out  with  all  the  fuss  and  flourish  of  a  transaction 
in  millions  and  at  a  cost,  I  w^as  told,  of  fifty  dollars'  worth  of  time 
and  trouble.  Therefore  it  was  hung  up  to  be  forever  admired  as 
the  ripe  fruit  of  an  infallible  system.  Xo  doubt  it  will  be  there 
when  another  Tweed  has  cleaned  out  the  city's  treasury  to  the 
last  cent.  However,  it  suggested  a  way  out  to  me.  Tw^o  could 
play  at  that  game.  There  is  a  familiar  principle  of  sanitary  law, 
expressed  in  more  than  one  ordinance,  that  no  citizen  has  a  right 
to  maintain  a  nuisance  on  his  premises  because  he  is  lazy  or  it 
suits  his  convenience  in  other  ways.  The  city  is  merely  the 
aggregate  of  citizens  in  a  corporation,  and  must  be  subject  to  the 
same  rules.  I  drew  up  a  complaint  in  proper  official  phrase, 
charging  that  the  state  of  ^Mulberry  Bend  was  detrimental  to 
health  and  dangerous  to  life,"  and  formally  arraigned  the  munic- 
ipality before  the  Health  Board  for  maintaining  a  nuisance  upon 
its  premises. 

I  have  still  a  copy  of  that  complaint,  and,  as  the  parting  shot 
to  the  worst  slum  that  ever  was,  and,  let  us  hope,  ever  will  be, 
I  quote  it  here  in  part :  — 

''The  Bend  is  a  mass  of  wTeck,  a  dumping-ground  for  all  man- 
ner of  filth  from  the  surrounding  tenements.  The  Street- 
cleaning  Department  has  no  jurisdiction  over  it,  and  the  Park 
Department,  in  ch.-rge  of  which  it  is,  exercises  none. 

''The  numerous  old  cellars  are  a  source  of  danger  to  the  chil- 
dren that  swarm  over  the  block.  Water  stagnating  in  the  holes 
will  shortly  add  the  peril  "^f  epidemic  disease.  Such  a  condition 
as  that  now  prevailing  in  this  block,  with  its  dense  surrounding 
population,  would  not  be  tolerated  by  your  department  for  a 
single  day  if  on  private  property.  It  has  lasted  here  many 
months. 

"The  property  is  owned  by  the  city,  having  been  taken  for  the 
purposes  of  a  park  and  left  in  this  condition  after  the  demolition 
of  the  old  buildings.    The  undersigned  respectfully  represents 


182 


THE  MAKING  OF  AN  AMERICAN 


that  the  city,  in  the  proposed  Mulberry  Bend  park,  is  at  present 
maintaining  a  nuisance,  and  that  it  is  the  duty  of  your  honorable 
Board  to  see  to  it  that  it  is  forthwith  abolished,  to  which  end  he 
prays  that  you  will  proceed  at  once  with  the  enforcement  of  the 
rules  of  your  department  prohibiting  the  maintaining  of  nui- 
sances within  the  city's  limits/'  % 

If  my  complaint  caused  a  smile  in  official  quarters,  it  was 
short-lived,  except  in  the  Sanitary  Bureau,  where  I  fancy  it 
lurked.  For  the  Bend  was  under  its  windows.  One  whiff  of  it 
was  enough  to  determine  the  kind  of  report  the  health  inspectors 
would  have  to  make  when  forced  to  act.  That  night,  before 
they  got  around,  some  boys  playing  with  a  truck  in  the  lots  ran 
it  down  into  one  of  the  cellar  holes  spoken  of  and  were  crushed 
under  it,  and  so  put  a  point  upon  the  matter  that  took  the 
laughter  out  of  it  for  good.  They  went  ahead  with  the  park 
then. 

When  they  had  laid  the  sod,  and  I  came  and  walked  on  it  in 
defiance  of  the  sign  to  ''keep  off  the  grass,''  I  was  whacked  by  a 
policeman  for  doing  it,  as  I  told  in  the  ''Ten  Years'  War."  ^  But 
that  was  all  right.  We  had  the  park.  And  I  had  been  "moved 
on"  before  when  I  sat  and  shivered  in  reeking  hallways  in 
that  very  spot,  alone  and  forlorn  in  the  long  ago ;  so  that  I  did 
not  mind.  The  children  who  were  dancing  there  in  the  sunlight 
were  to  have  a  better  time,  please  God !  We  had  given  them 
their  lost  chance.  Looking  at  them  in  their  delight  now,  it  is  not 
hard  to  understand  what  happened :  the  place  that  had  been 
redolent  of  crime  and  murder  became  the  most  orderly  in  the 
city.  When  the  last  house  was  torn  down  in  the  Bend,  I  counted 
seventeen  murders  in  the  block  all  the  details  of  which  I  remem- 
bered. No  doubt  I  had  forgotten  several  times  that  num- 
ber. In  the  four  years  after  that,  during  which  I  remained  in 
Mulberry  Street,  I  was  called  only  once  to  record  a  deed  of 
i  Now.  "The  Battle  with  the  Slum." 


THE  BEND  IS  LAID  BY  THE  HEELS  183 


violence  in  the  neighborhood,  and  that  was  when  a  stranger 
came  in  and  killed  himself.  Xor  had  the  Bend  simply  sloughed 
off  its  wickedness,  for  it  to  lodge  and  take  root  in  some  other 
place.  That  would  have  been  something ;  but  it  was  not  that. 
The  Bend  had  become  decent  and  orderly  because  the  sunlight 
was  let  in,  and  shone  upon  children  who  had  at  last  the  right  to 
play,  even  if  the  sign  ''keep  off  the  grass"  was  still  there.  That 
was  what  the  Mulberry  Bend  park  meant.  It  was  the  story  it 
had  to  tell.  And  as  for  the  sign,  we  shall  see  the  last  of  that  yet. 
The  park  has  notix^e  served  upon  it  that  its  time  is  up. 

So  the  Bend  went,  and  mighty  glad  am  I  that  I  had  a  hand  in 
making  it  go.  The  newspapers  puzzled  over  the  fact  that  I  was 
not  invited  to  the  formal  opening.  I  was  Secretary  of  the  Small 
Parks  Committee  at  the  time,  and  presumably  even  officially 
entitled  to  be  bidden  to  the  show ;  though,  come  to  think  of  it, 
our  committee  was  a  citizens'  affair  and  not  on  the  pay-rolls! 
The  Tammany  Mayor  w^ho  came  in  the  year  after  said  that  we 
had  as  much  authority  as  ''a  committee  of  bootblacks"  about 
the  City  Hall,  no  more.  So  that  it  seems  as  if  there  is  a  some- 
thing that  governs  those  things  which  survives  the  accidents  of 
politics,  and  which  mere  citizens  are  not  supposed  to  understand 
or  meddle  with.  Anyway,  it  was  best  so.  Colonel  Waring, 
splendid  fellow  thai  he  was,  when  he  grew  tired  of  the  much  talk, 
made  a  little  speech  of  ten  words  that  was  not  on  the  programme, 
and  after  that  the  politicians  went  home,  leaving  the  park  to  the 
children.  There  it  was  in  the  right  hands.  What  mattered  the 
rest,  then? 

And  now  let  me  go  back  from  the  slum  to  my  Brooklyn  home 
for  just  a  look.  I  did  every  night,  or  I  do  not  think  I  could  have 
stood  it.  I  never  lived  in  New  York  since  I  had  a  home,  except 
for  the  briefest  spell  of  a  couple  of  months  once  when  my  family 
were  away,  and  that  nearly  stifled  me.  I  have  to  be  where  there 
are  trees  and  birds  and  green  hills,  and  where  the  sky  is  blue 


184 


THE  MAKING  OF  AN  AMERICAN 


above.  So  we  built  our  nest  in  Brooklyn,  on  the  outskirts 
of  the  great  park,  while  the  fledglings  grew,  and  the  nest 
was  full  when  the  last  of  our  little  pile  had  gone  to  make  it 
snug.  Rent  was  getting  higher  all  the  time,  and  the  deeper  I 
burrowed  in  the  slum,  the  more  my  thoughts  turned,  by  a  sort 
of  defensive  instinct,  to  the  country.  My  wife  laughed,  and  said 
I  should  have  thought  of  that  while  we  yet  had  some  money  to 
buy  or  build  with,  but  I  borrowed  no  trouble  on  that  score.  I 
was  never  a  good  business  man,  as  I  have  said  before,  and  yet  — 
no !  I  will  take  that  back.  It  is  going  back  on  the  record.  I 
trusted  my  accounts  with  the  Great  Paymaster,  who  has  all  the 
money  there  is,  and  he  never  gave  notice  that  I  had  overdrawn 
my  account.  I  had  the  feeling,  and  have  it  still,  that  if  you  are 
trying  to  do  the  things  which  are  right,  and  which  you  were  put 
here  to  do,  you  can  and  ought  to  leave  ways  and  means  to  Him 
who  drew  the  plans,  after  you  have  done  your  own  level  best  to 
provide.  Always  that,  of  course.  If  then  things  don't  .come  out 
right,  it  is  the  best  proof  in  the  world,  to  my  mind,  that  you  have 
got  it  wrong,  and  you  have  only  to  hammer  away  waiting  for 
things  to  shape  themselves,  as  they  are  bound  to  do,  and  let  in 
the  light.  For  nothing  in  all  this  world  is  without  a  purpose,  and 
least  of  all  what  you  and  I  are  doing,  though  we  may  not  be  able 
to  make  it  out.  I  got  that  faith  from  my  mother,  and  it  never 
put  her  to  shame,  so  she  has  often  told  me. 

Neither  did  it  me.  It  was  in  the  winter  when  all  our  children 
had  the  scarlet  fever  that  one  Sunday,  when  I  was  taking  a  long 
walk  out  on  Long  Island  where  I  could  do  no  one  any  harm,  I 
came  upon  Richmond  Hill,  and  thought  it  was  the  most  beautiful 
spot  I  had  ever  seen.  I  went  home  and  told  my  wife  that  I  had 
found  the  place  where  we  were  going  to  live,  and  that  sick-room 
was  filled  with  the  scent  of  spring  flowers  and  of  balsam  and  pine 
as  the  children  listened  and  cheered  with  their  feeble  little 
voices.    The  very  next  week  I  picked  out  the  lots  I  wanted. 


THE  BEND  IS  LAID  BY  THE  HEELS  185 


There  was  a  tangle  of  trees  growing  on  them  that  are  shading  m}^ 
study  window  now  as  I  write.  I  did  not  have  any  money,  but 
right  then  an  insurance  company  was  in  need  pf  some  one  to 
revise  its  Danish  poHcies,  and  my  old  friend  General  C.  T. 
Christ ensen  thought  I  would  do.  And  I  did  it,  and  earned  S200  ; 
whereupon  Edward  Wells,  who  was  then  a  prosperous  druggist^ 
offered  to  lend  me  what  more  I  needed  to  buy  the  lots,  and  the 
manager  of  our  Press  Bureau  built  me  a  house  and  took  a  mort- 
gage for  all  it- cost.  So  before  the  next  winter's  snows  we  were 
snug  in  the  house  that  has  been  ours  ever  since,  with  a  ridge  of 
wooded  hills,  the  ^'backbone  of  Long  Island,"  between  New 
York  and  us.  The  very  lights  of  the  city  were  shut  out.  So 
was  the  slum,  and  I  could  sleep. 

Fifteen  summers  have  passed  since.  The  house  lies  yonder, 
white  and  peaceful  under  the  trees.  Long  since,  the  last  dollar 
of  the  mortgage  was  paid  and  our  home  freed  from  debt.^  The 
flag  flies  from  it  on  Sundays  in  token  thereof.  Joy  and  sorrow 
have  come  to  us  under  its  roof.  Children  have  been  born,  and 
one  we  carried  over  the  hill  to  the  churchyard  with  tears  for  the 
baby  we  had  lost.  But  He  to  whom  we  gave  it  back  has  turned 
our  grief  to  joy.  Of  all  our  babies,  the  one  we  lost  is  the  only 
one  we  have  kept.  The  others  grew  out  of  our  arms;  I  hardly 
remember  them  in  their  little  white  shps.  But  he  is  our  baby 
forever.  Fifteen  happy  years  of  peace  have  they  been,  for  love 
held  the  course. 

It  was  when  the  daisies  bloomed  in  the  spring  that  the  children 
brought  in  armfuls  from  the  fields,  and  bade  me  take  them  to 
^'the  poors"  in  the  city.  I  did  as  they  bade  me,  but  I  never  got 
more  than  half  a  block  from  the  ferry  with  my  burden.  The 

1  I  have  had  my  study  built  on  the  back  lawn  so  that  I  maj'  always 
have  it  before  me,  and  have  a  quiet  place  at  the  same  time,  where  "papa 
is  not  to  be  disturbed."  But,  though  I  put  it  as  far  back  as  I  could, 
I  notice  that  they  come  right  in. 


186 


THE  MAKING  OF  AN  AMP]RICAN 


street  children  went  wild  over  the  posies/^  They  pleaded  and 
fought  to  get  near  me,  and  when  I  had  no  flowers  left  to  give 
them  sat  in  the^gutter  and  wept  with  grief.  The  sight  of  it  went 
to  my  heart,  and  I  wrote  this  letter  to  the  papers.  It  is  dated  in 
my  scrap-book  June  23,  1888 :  — 

^^The  trains  that  carry  a  hundred  thousand  people  to  New 
York^s  stores  and  offices  from  their  homes  in  the  country  rush 
over  fields,  these  bright  June  mornings,  glorious  with  daisies 
and  clover  blossoms.  There  are  too  many  sad  little  eyes  in  the 
crowded  tenements,  where  the  summer  sunshine  means  disease 
and  death,  not  play  or  vacation,  that  will  close  without  ever 
having  looked  upon  a  field  of  daisies. 

^'If  we  cannot  give  them  the  fields,  why  not  the  flowers?  If 
every  man,  woman,  or  child  coming  in  should,  on  the  way  to  the 
depot,  gather  an  armful  of  wild  flowers  to  distribute  in  the  tene- 
ments, a  mission  work  would  be  set  on  foot  with  which  all  the 
almsgiving  of  this  wealthy  city  could  not  be  compared. 

^'Then  why  not  do  it?  Ask  your  readers  to  try.  The 
pleasure  of  giving  the  flowers  to  the  urchins  who  will  dog  their 
steps  in  the  street,  crying  with  hungry  voices  and  hungry  hearts 
for  a  *posy,^  will  more  than  pay  for  the  trouble.  It  will  brighten 
the  office,  the  store,  or  the  schoolroom  all  through  the  day. 
Let  them  have  no  fear  that  their  gift  will  not  be  appreciated 
because  it  costs  nothing.  Not  alms,  but  the  golden  rule,  is  what 
is  needed  in  the  tenements  of  the  poor. 

*^If  those  who  have  not  the  time  or  opportunity  themselves 
will  ser  J  their  flowers  to  303  Mulberry  Street,  opposite  Police 
Headquarters,  it  will  be  done  for  them.  The  summer  doctors  em- 
ployed by  the  Health  Department  to  canvass  the  tenements  in 
July  and  August  will  gladly  cooperate.    Let  us  have  the  flowers." 

If  I  could  have  foreseen  the  result,  I  hardly  think  that  last 
paragraph  would  have  been  printed.  I  meant  to  give  people  a 
chance  to  discover  for  themselves  how  much  pleasure  they  could 


THE  BEND  IS  LAID  BY  THE  HEELS  187 


get  out  of  a  little  thing  like  taking  an  amiful  of  flowers  to  town, 
but  they  voted  unanimously,  so  it  seemed,  to  let  me  have  it  all. 
Flowers  came  pouring  in  from  every  corner  of  the  compass. 
They  came  in  boxes,  in  barrels,  and  in  bunches,  from  field  and 
garden,  from  to\^^l  and  country.  Express-wagons  carrying 
flowers  jammed  Alulberry  Street,  and  the  police  came  out  to 
marvel  at  the  row.  The  office  was  fairl}^  smothered  in  fragrance. 
A  howling  mob  of  children  besieged  it.  The  reporters  forgot 
their  rivalries  and  lent  a  hand  wdth  enthusiasm  in  giving  out  the 
flowers.  The  Superintendent  of  Police  detailed  five  stout 
patrolmen  to  help  carry  the  abundance  to  points  of  convenient 
distribution.  Wherever  we  went,  fretful  babies  stopped  crying 
and  smiled  as  the  messengers  of  love  w^re  laid  against  their  wan 
cheeks.    Slovenly  women  court esied  and  made  way. 

^^The  good  Lord  bless  you,^^  I  heard  as  I  passed  through  a 
dark  hall,  ^'but  you  are  a  good  man.  Xo  such  has  come  this 
way  before.'^  Oh!  the  heartache  of  it,  and  yet  the  joy!  The 
Italians  in  the  Barracks  stopped  quarrelling  to  help  keep  order. 
The  worst  street  became  suddenly  good  and  neighborly.  A 
3^ear  or  two  after,  Father  John  Tabb,  priest  and  poet,  wrote, 
upon  reading  my  statement  that  I  had  seen  an  armful  of  daisies 
keep  the  peace  of  a  block  better  than  the  policeman^s  club :  — 

Peacefixakers  ye,  the  daisies,  from  the  soil 
Upbreathing  wordless  messages  of  love, 

Soothing  of  earth-born  brethren  the  toil 
And  lifting  e'en  the  lowliest  above. 

Ay,  they  did.  The  poet  knew  it;  the  children  knew  it;  the 
slum  knew  it.  It  lost  its  grip  where  the  flowers  went  with  their 
message.    I  saw  it. 

I  saw,  too,  that  I  had  put  my  hand  to  a  task  that  was  too 
great  for  me,  yet  which  I  might  not  give  over,  once  I  had  taken 
it  up.  Every  day  the  slum  showed  me  that  more  clearly.  The 
hunger  for  the  beautiful  that  gnawed  at  its  heart  was  a  constant 


188 


THE  MAKING  OF  AN  AMERICAN 


revelation.  Those  little  ones  at  home  were  wiser  than  I.  At 
most  I  had  made  out  its  stomach.  This  was  hke  cutting  win- 
dows for  souls  that  were  being  shrunk  and  dwarfed  in  their  mean 
setting.  Shut  them  up  once  the  sunhght  had  poured  in  —  never  ! 
I  could  only  drive  ahead,  then,  until  a  way  opened.  Somewhere 
beyond  it  was  sure  to  do  that. 

And  it  did.  Among  the  boxes  from  somewhere  out  in  Jersey 
came  one  with  the  letters  I.  H.  N.  on.  I  paid  little  attention  to 
it  then,  but  when  more  came  so  marked,  I  noticed  that  they  were 
not  all  from  one  place,  and  made  inquiries  as  to  what  the  letters 
meant.  So  I  was  led  to  the  King's  Daughters'  headquarters, 
where  I  learned  that  they  stood  for  ^'In  His  Name."  I  liked  the 
sentiment;  I  took  to  it  at  once.  And  I  liked  the  silver  cross 
upon  which  it  was  inscribed.  I  sometimes  wish  I  had  lived  — 
no !  I  do  not.  That's  dreaming.  I  have  lived  in  the  best  of  all 
times,  when  you  do  not  have  to  dream  things  good,  but  can  help 
make  them  so.  All  the  same,  when  I  put  on  the  old  crusader's 
cross  which  King  Christian  sent  me  a  year  ago  from  Denmark, 
and  think  of  the  valiant  knights  who  wore  it,  I  feel  glad  and 
proud  that,  however  far  behind,  I  may  ride  in  their  t:iain. 

So  I  put  on  the  silver  cross,  and  in  the  Broadway  Tabernacle 
spoke  to  the  members  of  the  order,  asking  them  to  make  this  work 
theirs.  They  did  it  at  once.  A  committee  was  formed,  and  in 
the  summer  of  1890  it  opened  an  office  in  the  basement  of  the 
Mariners'  Temple,  down  in  the  Fourth  Ward.  The  Health 
Department's  summer  doctors  were  enlisted,  and  the  work  took 
a  practical  turn  from  the  start.  There  were  fifty  of  the  doctors, 
whose  duty  it  was  to  canvass  the  thirty  thousand  tenements 
during  the  hot  season  and  prescribe  for  the  sick  poor.  They  had 
two  months  to  do  it  in,  and  with  the  utmost  effort,  if  they  were 
to  cover  their  ground,  could  only  get  around  once  to  each  family. 
In  a  great  many  cases  that  was  as  good  as  nothing.  They  might 
as  well  h-rive  stayed  away,  for  what  was  wanted  was  ad\dce, 


THE  BEND  IS  LAID  BY  THE  HEELS  189 


instruction,  a  friendly  lift  out  of  a  hopeless  rut,  more  than 
medicine.  We  hired  a  nurse,  and  where  they  pointed  there  she 
went,  following  their  track  and  bringing  the  things  the  doctor 
could  n'ot  give.  It  worked  well.  At  the  end  of  the  year,  when 
we  would  have  shut  up  shop,  we  found  ourselves  with  three 
hundred  families  on  our  hands,  to  leave  whom  would  have  been 
rank  treachery.  So  we  took  a  couple  of  rooms  in  a  tenement, 
amd  held  on.  And  from  this  small  beginning  has  grown  the 
King's  Daughters'  settlement,  which  to-day  occupies  two 
houses  at  48  and  50  Henry  Street,  doing  exactly  the  same  kind 
of  work  as  when  they  began  in  the  next  block.  The  flowers  were 
and  are  the  open  sesame  to  every  home.  They  were  laughed  at 
by  some  at  the  start ;  but  that  was  because  they  did  not  know. 
They  are  not  needed  now  to  open  doors ;  the  little  cross  is  known 
for  a  friend  wherever  it  goes. 

We  sometimes  hear  it  said,  and  it  is  true,  that  the  poor  are 
more  charitable  among  themselves  than  the  outside  world  is  to 
them.  It  is  because  they  know  the  want;  and  it  only  goes  to 
prove  that  human  nature  is  at  bottom  good,  not  bad.  In  real 
straits  it  comes  out  strongest.  So,  if  you  can  only  make  the 
others  see,  will  they  do.  The  trouble  is,  they  do  not  know,  and 
some  of  us  seem  to  have  cotton  in  our  ears :  we  are  a  little  hard 
of  hearing.  Yet,  whenever  we  put  it  to  the  test,  up-town  rang 
true.  I  remember  the  widow  with  three  or  four  little  ones  who 
had  to  be  wheeled  if  she  were  to  be  able  to  get  about  as  the 
doctor  insisted.  There  was  no  nursery  within  reach.  And  I 
remember  the  procession  of  baby-carriages  that  answered  our 
appeal.  It  strung  clear  across  the  street  into  Chatham  Square. 
Whatever  we  needed  we  got.  We  saw  the  great  heart  of  our 
city,  and  it  was  good  to  see. 

Personally  I  had  little  to  do  with  it,  except  to  form  the  link 
with  the  official  end  of  it,  the  summer  doctors,  etc.,  and  to  make 
trouble  occasionally.    As,  for  instance,  when  I  surreptitiously 


190 


THE  MAKING  OF  AN  AMERICAN 


supplied  an  old  couple  we  had  charge  of  with  plug  tobacco.  The 
ladies  took  it  ill,  but,  then,  they  had  never  smoked.  I  had,  and 
I  know  what  it  is  to  do  without  tobacco,  for  the  doctor  cut  my 
supply  off  a  long  while  ago.  Those  two  were  old,  very  old,  and 
they  wanted  their  pipe,  and  they  got  it.  I  suppose  it  was  irregu- 
lar, but  I  might  as  well  say  it  here  that  I  would  do  the  same  thing 
again,  without  doubt.  I  feel  it  in  my  bones.  So  little  have  I 
profited.  But,  good  land !  a  pipe  is  not  a  deadly  sin.  For  the 
rest,  I  was  mighty  glad  to  see  things  managed  with  system. 
It  was  a  new  experience  to  me.  On  the  Tribune  I  had  a  kind  of 
license  to  appeal  now  and  again  for  some  poor  family  I  had  come 
across,  and  sometimes  a  good  deal  of  money  came  in.  It  was 
hateful  to  find  that  it  did  not  always  do  the  good  it  ought  to. 
I  bring  to  mind  the  aged  bookkeeper  and  his  wife  whom  I  found 
in  a  Greene  Street  attic  in  a  state  of  horrid  want.  He  had  seen 
much  better  days,  and  it  was  altogether  a  very  pitiful  case.  My 
appeal  brought  in  over  $300,  which,  in  my  delight,  I  brought 
him  in  a  lump.  The  next  morning,  when  going  home  at  three 
o'clock,  whom  should  I  see  in  a  vile  Chatham  Street  dive, 
gloriously  drunk,  and  in  the  clutches  of  a  gang  of  Sixth  Ward 
cutthroats,  but  my  prot6ge,  the  bookkeeper,  squandering  money 
right  and  left.  I  caught  sight  of  him  through  the  open  door, 
and  in  hot  indignation  went  in  and  yanked  him  out,  giving  him 
a  good  talking  to.  The  gang  followed,  and  began  hostilities  at 
once.  But  for  the  providential  coming  of  two  policemen,  we 
should  probably  have  both  fared  ill.  I  had  the  old  man  locked 
up  in  tiie  Oak  Street  Station.  For  a  wonder,  he  had  most  of  the 
money  yet,  and  thereafter  I  spent  it  for  him. 

On  another  occasion  we  were  deliberately  victimized  —  the 
reporters  in  Mulberry  Street,  I  mean  —  by  a  man  with  a  pitiful 
story  of  hardship,  v/hich  we  took  as  truth  and  printed.  When 
I  got  around  there  the  next  morning  to  see  about  it,  I  found  that 
some  neighborhood  roughs  had  established  a  toll-gate  in  the  alley, 


THE  BEXD  IS  LAID  BY  THE  HEELS  191 


charging  the  pitying  visitors  who  came  in  shoals  a  quarter  for 
admission  to  the  show  in  the  garret.  The  man  was  a  fraud. 
That  was  right  around  the  corner  from  a  place  where,  years 
before,  I  used  to  drop  a  nickel  in  a  beggar  woman's  hand  night 
after  night  as  I  went  past,  because  she  had  a  baby  cradled  on  her 
wheezy  little  hand-organ,  until  one  night  the  baby  rolled  into 
the  gutter,  and  I  saw  that  it  was  a  rag  baby,  and  that  the  woman 
was  drunk.  It  was  on  such  evidence  as  this,  both  as  to  them  and 
m^^self,  that  I  early  pinned  my  faith  to  organized  charity  as  just 
orderly  charity,  and  I  have  found  good  reasons  since  to  confirm 
me  in  the  choice.  If  any  doubt  had  lingered  in  my  mind,  my 
experience  in  helping  distribute  the  relief  fund  to  the  tornado 
sufferers  at  Woodhaven  a  dozen  years  ago  would  have  dispelled 
it.  It  does  seem  as  if  the  chance  of  getting  something  for 
nothing  is,  on  the  whole,  the  greatest  temptation  one  can  hold 
out  to  frail  human  nature,  whether  in  the  slum,  in  Wall  Street, 
or  out  where  the  daisies  grow. 

Everything  takes  money.  Our  w^ork  takes  a  good  deal.  It 
happened  more  than  once,  when  the  bills  came  in,  that  there  was 
nothing  to  pay  them  with.  Now  these  were  times  to  put  to  the 
test  my  faith,  as  recorded  above.  My  associates  in  the  Board 
will  bear  me  out  that  it  was  justified.  It  is  true  that  the  strain 
was  heavy  once  or  twice.  I  recall  one  afternoon,  as  do  they, 
when  we  sat  with  bills  amounting  to  $150  before  us  and  not  a 
cent  in  the  bank,  so  the  treasurer  reported.  Even  as  she  did,  the 
mail-carrier  brought  two  letters,  both  from  the  same  town,  as  it 
happened  —  Morristown,  X.J.  Each  of  them  contained  a 
check  for  $75,  one  from  a  happy  mother  ''in  gratitude  and  joy/' 
the  other  from  '^one  stricken  by  a  great  sorrow''  that  had 
darkened  her  life.  Together  they  made  the  sum  needed.  We 
sat  and  looked  at  each  other  dumbly.  To  me  it  was  not  strange  : 
that  was  my  mother's  faith.  But  I  do  not  think  w^e,  any  of  us, 
doubted  after  that ;  and  we  had  what  we  needed,  as  we  needed  it. 


CHAPTER  XII 


I  Become  an  Author  and  Resume  My  Interrupted  Caheer 
AS  A  Lecturer 

For  more  than  a  year  I  had  knocked  at  the  doors  of  the  various 
magazine  editors  with  my  pictures,  proposing  to  tell  them  how 
the  other  half  hved,  but  no  one  wanted  to  know.  One  of  the 
Harpers,  indeed,  took  to  the  idea,  but  the  editor  to  whom  he 
sent  me  treated  me  very  cavaUerly.  Hearing  that  I  had  taken 
the  pictures  myself,  he  proposed  to  buy  them  at  regular  pho- 
tographer's rates  and  '^find  a  man  who  could  write''  to  tell  the 
story.  We  did  not  part  with  mutual  expressions  of  esteem.  I 
gave  up  writing  for  a  time  then,  and  tried  the  church  doors. 
That  which  was  bottled  up  within  me  was,  perhaps,  getting  a 
trifle  too  hot  for  pen  and  ink.  In  the  church  one  might,  at  all 
events,  tell  the  truth  unhindered.  So  I  thought ;  but  there  were 
cautious  souls  there,  too,  who  held  the  doors  against  Mulberry 
Street  and  the  police  reporter.  It  was  fair,  of  course,  that  they 
should  know  who  I  was,  but  I  thought  it  sufficient  introduction 
that  I  was  a  deacon  in  my  own  church  out  on  Long  Island. 
They  did  not,  it  seemed.  My  stock  of  patience,  never  very 
large,  was  showing  signs  of  giving  out,  and  I  retorted  hotly 
that  then,  if  they  wanted  to  know,  I  was  a  reporter,  and  perhaps 
Mulberry  Street  had  as  much  sanctity  in  it  as  a  church  that 
would  not  listen  to  its  wrongs.  They  only  shut  the  doors  a  little 
tighter  at  that.   It  did  not  mend  matters  that  about  that  time 

192 


I  BECOME  AX  AUTHOR 


193 


I  tried  a  little  truth-telling  in  my  own  fold  and  came  to  grief. 
It  did  not  prove  to  be  any  more  popular  on  Long  Island  than 
in  Xew  York.  I  resigned  the  diaeonate  and  was  thinking  of 
hiring  a  hall  —  a  theatre  could  be  had  on  Sunday  —  wherein 
to  preach  my  lay  sermon,  when  I  came  across  Dr.  Schauffler, 
the  manager  of  the  City  Mission  Society,  and  Dr.  Josiah  Strong, 
the  author  of  ''Our  Country."  They  happened  to  be  together, 
and  saw  at  once  the  bearing  of  my  pictures.  Remembering 
my  early  experience  with  the  magic  lantern,  I  had  had  slides 
ma^de  from  my  negatives,  and  on  Februar}^  28,  1888,  I  told  their 
story  in  the  Broadway  Tabernacle.  Thereafter  things  mended 
somewhat.  Plymouth  Church  and  Dr.  Parkhurst's  opened  their 
doors  to  me  and  the  others  fell  slowly  into  line. 

I  had  my  say  and  felt  better.  I  found  a  note  from  Dr.  Schauf- 
fler  among  my  papers  the  other  day  that  was  written  on  the 
morning  after  that  first  speech.  He  was  pleased  with  it  and  with 
the  collection  of  8143.50  for  the  mission  cause.  I  remember  it 
made  me  smile  a  little  grimly.  The  fifty  cents  would  have 
come  handy  for  lunch  that  day.  It  just  happened  that  I  did 
not  have  any.  It  happened  quite  often.  I  was,  as  I  said,  ever 
a  bad  manager.  I  mention  it  here  because  of  two  letters  that 
came  while  I  have  been  writing  this,  and  which  I  may  as  well 
answer  now.  One  asks  me  to  lift  the  mortgage  from  the  writer's 
home.  I  get  a  good  many  of  that  kind.  The  wTiters  seem  to 
think  I  have  much  money  and  might  want  to  help  them.  I 
should  like  nothing  better.  To  go  around,  if  one  were  rich, 
and  pay  off  mortgages  on  little  homes,  so  that  the  owners  when 
they  had  got  the  interest  together  by  pinching  and  scraping 
should  find  it  all  gone  and  paid  up  without  knowing  how,  seems 
to  me  must  be  the  very  finest  fun  in  all  the  world.  But  I  shall 
never  be  able  to  do  it,  for  I  haven't  any  other  money  than 
what  I  earn  with  my  pen  and  by  lecturing,  and  never  had. 
So  their  appeals  only  make  me  poorer  by  a  two-cent  stamp  for 
o 


194         THE  MAKING  OF  AN  AMERICAN 


an  answer  to  tell  them  that,  and  make  them  no  richer.  The 
other  letter  asks  why  I  and  other  young  men  who  have  had  to 
battle  with  the  world  did  not  go  to  the  Young  Men's  Christian 
Association,  or  to  the  missionaries,  for  help.  I  do  not  know 
about  the  others,  but  I  did  not  want  anybody  to  help  me. 
There  were  plenty  that  were  worse  off  and  needed  help  more. 
The  only  time  I  tried  was  when  Pater  Breton,  the  good  French 
priest  in  Buffalo,  tried  to  get  me  across  to  France  to  fight  for 
his  country,  and  happily  did  not  succeed.  As  to  battling  with 
the  world,  that  is  good  for  a  young  man,  much  better  than  to 
hang  on  to  somebody  for  support.  A  little  starvation  once  in 
a  while  even  is  not  out  of  the  way.  We  eat  too  much  anyhow, 
and  when  you  have  fought  your  way  through  a  tight  place,  you 
are  the  better  for  it.  I  am  afraid  that  is  not  always  the  case 
when  you  have  been  shoved  through. 

And  then  again,  as  I  have  just  told,  when  I  did  go  to  the  minis- 
ters with  a  fair  proposition,  they  did  not  exactly  jump  at  it. 
No,  it  was  better  the  way  it  was. 

The  thing  I  had  sought  vainly  so  long  came  in  the  end  by 
another  road  than  I  planned.  One  of  the  editors  of  Scribner^s 
Magazine  saw  my  pictures  and  heard  their  story  in  his  church, 
and  came  to  talk  the  matter  over  with  me.  As  a  result  of  that 
talk  I  wrote  an  article  that  appeared  in  the  Christmas  Scribner^Sy 
1889,  under  the  title  ^'How  the  Other  Half  Lives,^'  and  made 
an-  instant  impression.    That  was  the  beginning  of  better  days. 

Before  I  let  the  old  depart  I  must  set  down  an  incident  of 
my  reporter's  experience  that  crowds  in  with  a  good  hearty 
laugh,  though  it  was  not  the  slum  that  sent  me  to  the  Church 
of  the  Holy  Communion  over  on  Sixth  Avenue.  And  though 
the  door  was  shut  in  my  face,  it  was  not  by  the  rector,  or  with 
malice  prepense.  A  despatch  from  the  Tenderloin  police  station 
had  it  that  the  wife  of  the  Rev.  Dr.  Henry  Mottet  was  locked 
up  there,  out  of  her  mind.    We  had  no  means  of  knowing  that 


I  BECOME  AN  AUTHOR 


195 


Dr.  ■Mottet  was  at  that  time  a  confirmed  bachelor.  So  I  went 
over  to  condole  with  him,  and  incidentally  to  ask  what  was  the 
matter  with  his  wife,  any  way.  The  servant  who  came  to  the 
door  did  not  know  whether  the  doctor  was  in;  she  would  go 
and  see.  But  even  as  she  said  it  the  wind  blew  the  door  shut 
behind  her.    It  had  a  snap-lock. 

''Oh!"  she  said,  ''I  am  shut  out.  If  the  doctor  isn't  in  the 
house,  I  can't  get  in." 

We  rang,  but  no  one  came.  There  was  only  one  way:  to 
try  the  windows.  The  poor  girl  could  not  be  left  in  the  street. 
So  we  went  around  the  rectory  and  found  one  unlatched.  She 
gave  me  a  leg  up,  and  I  raised  the  sash  and  crawled  in. 

Halfway  in  the  room,  with  one  leg  over  the  sill,  I  became 
dimly  conscious  of  a  shape  there.  Tall  and  expectant,  it  stood 
between  the  door-curtains. 

^'Well,  sir!  and  who  are  you?"  it  spoke  sternly. 

I  cUmbed  over  the  sill  and  put  the  question  myself :  ^^\nd 
who  are  you,  sir?" 

''I  am  Dr.  Mottet,  and  live  in  this  house."  He  had  been  in 
after  all  and  had  come  down  to  hear  what  the  ringing  was  about. 
'^And  now  may  I  ask,  sir  — ?" 

'^Certainly,  you  may.  I  am  a  reporter  from  Police  Head- 
quarters, come  up  to  tell  you  that  your  wife  is  locked  up  in  the 
Thirtieth  Street  police  station." 

The  doctor  looked  fixedly  at  me  for  a  full  minute.  Then  he 
slowly  telescoped  his  tall  frame  into  an  armchair,  and  sank 
do^ai,  a  look  of  comic  despair  settling  upon  his  face. 

''0  Lord!"  he  sighed  heavily.  ''A  strange  man  climbs 
through  my  parlor  window  to  tell  me,  a  bachelor,  that  my 
wife  is  locked  up  in  the  police  station.  What  will  happen 
next?" 

And  then  we  laughed  together  and  made  friends.  The 
woman  was  just  an  ordinary  lunatic. 


196 


THE  MAKING  OF  AN  AMERICAN 


I  was  late  home  from  the  office  one  evening  the  week  my 
Christmas  article  was  printed.  My  wife  was  waiting  for  me 
at  the  door,  looking  down  the  street.  I  saw  that  she  had  some- 
thing on  her  mind,  but  the  children  were  all  right,  she  said; 
nothing  was  amiss.  Supper  over,  she  drew  a  chair  to  the  fire 
and  brought  out  a  letter. 

^'I  read  it,'^  she  nodded.  It  was  our  way.  The  commonest 
business  letter  is  to  me  a  human  document  when  she  has  read 
it.  Besides,  she  knows  so  much  more  than  I.  Her  heart  can 
find  a  way  where  my  head  bucks  blindly  against  stone  walls. 

The  letter  was  from  Jeanette  Gilder,  of  the  Critic,  asking  if  I 
had  thought  of  making  my  article  into  a  book.  If  so,  she  knew 
a  publisher.  My  chance  had  come.  I  was  at  last  to  have 
my  say. 

I  should  have  thought  I  would  have  shouted  and  carried  on. 
I  didn't.  We  sat  looking  into  the  fire  together,  she  and  I. 
Neither  of  us  spoke.  Then  we  went  up  to  the  children.  They 
slept  sweetly  in  their  cribs.  I  saw  a  tear  in  her. eye  as  she  bent 
over  the  baby's  cradle,  and  caught  her  to  me,  questioning. 

Shall  we  lose  you  now?"  she  whispered,  and  hid  her  head 
on  my  shoulder.  I  do  not  know  what  jealous  thought  of  authors 
being  wedded  to  their  work  had  come  into  her  mind  ;  or,  rather, 
I  do.  I  felt  it,  and  in  my  heart,  while  I  held  her  close,  I 
registered  a  vow  which  I  have  kept.  It  was  the  last  tears  she 
shed  for  me.  Our  daughter  pouts  at  her  father  now  and  then ; 
says  I  am  fierce."  But  She  comes  with  her  sewing  to  sit 
where  I  write,  and  when  she  comes  the  sun  shines. 

Necessarily,  for  a  while,  my  new  work  held  me  very  close. 
''How  the  Other  Half  Lives"  was  written  at  night  while  the 
house  slept,  for  I  had  my  office  work  to  attend  to  in  the  day. 
Then  it  was  my  habit  to  light  the  lamps  in  all  the  rooms  of  the 
lower  story  and  roam  through  them  with  my  pipe,  for  I  do 
most  of  my  writing  on  my  feet.    I  began  the  book  with  the  new 


I  BECOME  AN  AUTHOR 


197 


year.  In  November  it  was  published,  and  on  the  day  it  came 
out  I  joined  the  staff  of  the  Evening  Sun.  I  merely  moved  up 
one  flight  of  stairs.  ]\Iulberry  Street  was  not  done  with  me  yet, 
nor  I  with  it. 

I  had  had  a  falling  out  with  the  manager  of  the  Associated 
Press  Bureau,  —  the  Tribune  had  retired  from  the  copartnership 
some  years  before,  —  and  during  one  brief  summer  ran  an  oppo- 
sition shop  of  my  own.  I  sold  police  news  to  all  the  papers, 
and  they  fell  away  from  the  Bureau  wdth  such  hearty  unanimitj^ 
that  the  manager  came  around  and  offered  to  farm  out  the 
department  to  me  entirely  if  I  would  join  forces.  But  inde- 
pendence was  ever  sweet  to  me,  and  in  this  instance  it  proved 
profitable  even.  I  made  at  least  three  times  as  much  money 
as  before,  but  I  did  it  at  such  cost  of  energy  and  effort  that  I  soon 
found  it  could  not  last,  even  with  the  phenomenal  streak  of 
good  luck  I  had  struck.  It  seemed  as  if  I  had  only  to  reach 
out  to  turn  up  news.  I  hear  people  saying  once  in  a  while  that 
there  is  no  such  thing  as  luck.  They  are  wTong.  There  is  ; 
I  know  it.  It  runs  in  streaks,  like  accidents  and  fires.  The 
thing  is  to  get  in  the  way  of  it  and  keep  there  till  it  comes  along, 
then  hitch  on,  and  away  you  go.  It  is  the  old  story  of  the  early 
bird.  I  got  up  at  five  o'clock,  three  hours  before  any  of  my 
competitors,  and  sometimes  they  came  down  to  the  office  to 
find  mj"  news  hawked  about  the  street  in  extras  of  their  own 
papers. 

One  way  or  another,  a  fight  there  was  always  on  hand.  That 
seemed  foreordained.  If  it  was  not  'Hhe  opposition"  it  was  the 
police.  When  Mulberry  Street  took  a  rest  the  publisher's 
reader"  began  it,  and  the  proof-reader.  This  last  is  an  enemy 
of  human  kind  anyhow.  Not  only  that  he  makes  you  say  things 
you  never  dreamed  of,  but  his  being  so  cocksure  that  he  knows 
better  every  time,  is  a  direct  challenge  to  a  fight.  The  '^reader" 
is  tarred  with  the  same  stick.    He  is  the  one  who  passes  on  the 


198 


THE  MAKING  OF  AN  AMERICAN 


manuscript,  and  he  has  an  ingrown  hatred  of  opinion.  If  a 
man  has  that,  he  is  his  enemy  before  he  ever  sets  eye  on  him. 
He  passed  on  my  manuscript  with  a  blue  pencil  that  laid  waste 
whole  pages,  once  a  whole  chapter,  with  a  stroke.  It  was  like 
sacking  a  conquered  city.  But  he  did  not  die  in  his  sins.  I 
joined  battle  at  the  first  sight  of  that  blue  pencil.  The  pub- 
lishers said  their  reader  was  a  very  capable  man.  So  he  was, 
and  a  fine  fellow  to  boot ;  had  forgotten  more  than  I  ever  knew, 
except  as  to  the  other  half,  of  which  he  did  not  know  anything. 
I  suggested  to  the  firm  that  if  they  did  not  think  so,  they  had 
better  let  him  write  a  book  to  suit,  or  else  print  mine  as  I  wrote 
it.  It  was  fair,  and  they  took  my  view  of  it.  So  did  he.  The 
blue  pencil  went  out  of  commission. 

How  deadly  tired  I  was  in  those  days  I  do  not  think  I  myself 
knew  until  I  went  to  Boston  one  evening  to  help  discuss  sweating 
at  the  Institute  of  Technology.  I  had  an  hour  to  spare,  and  went 
around  into  Beaco.i  Street  to  call  upon  a  friend.  I  walked  me- 
chanically up  the  stoop  and  rang  the  bell.  My  friend  was  not 
in,  said  the  servant  who  came  to  the  door.  Who  should  she  say 
called?  I  stood  and  looked  at  her  like  a  fool :  I  had  forgotten 
my  name.  I  was  not  asleep;  I  was  rummaging  in  an  agony 
of  dread  and  excitement  through  every  corner  and  crevice  of 
my  brain  for  my  own  name,  but  I  did  not  find  it.  As  slowly  as 
I  could,  to  gain  time,  I  reached  for  my  card-case  and  fumbled 
for  a  card,  hoping  to  remember.  But  no  ray  came.  Until  I 
actuiiUy  read  my  name  on  my  card  it  was  as  utterly  gone  as  if 
I  had  never  heard  it.  If  the  people  of  Boston  got  anything  out 
^f  my  speech  that  day  they  did  better  than  I.  All  the  time 
I  spoke  something  kept  saying  over  within  me:  ^'You  are  a 
nice  fellow  to  make  a  speech  at  the  Institute  of  Technology; 
you  don't  even  know  your  own  name.'' 

After  that  I  w?s  haunted  by  a  feeling  that  I  would  lose  myself 
altogether,  and  got  into  the  habit  of  leaving  private  directions 


ELMWOOD, 
CAMBRIDGE.  MASS. 


yL'!  /CfO. 


y  jCt^    ^a-P  ^^^7^  ^zr^ 

A  /^// 

^^4/  ^  y2^>£^ 


Mr.  Lowell's  Letter. 


I  BECOME  AN  AUTHOR 


199 


in  the  office  where  I  would  probably  be  found,  should  question 
arise.  It  arose  at  last  in  a  Brooklj^n  church  where  I  w^as  making 
a  speech  with  my  magic-lantern  pictures.  While  I  spoke  a 
feeling  kept  growing  upon  me  that  I  ought  to  be  down  in  the 
audience  looking  at  the  pictures.  It  all  seemed  a  long  way  off 
and  in  no  way  related  to  me.  Before  I  knew  it,  or  any  one  had 
time  to  notice,  I  had  gone  down  and  taken  a  front  seat.  I  sat 
there  for  as  much  as  five  minutes  perhaps,  while  the  man  with 
the  lantern  fidgeted  and  the  audience  wondered,  I  suppose, 
what  was  coming  next.  Then  it  was  the  pictures  that  did  not 
change  which  fretted  me ;  with  a  cold  chill  I  knew  I  had  been 
lost,  and  went  back  and  finished  the  speech.  No  one  was  any 
the  wiser,  apparently.  But  I  was  glad  when,  the  following 
week,  I  wrote  the  last  page  in  my  book.  That  night,  my  wife 
insists,  I  deliberately  turned  a  somerset  on  the  parlor  carpet  while 
the  big  children  cheered  and  the  baby  looked  on,  wide-eyed,  from 
her  high  chair. 

I  preserve  among  my  cherished  treasures  two  letters  of  that 
period  from  James  Russell  Lowell.  In  one  of  them  he  gives 
me  permission  to  use  the  verses  with  which  I  prefaced  the  book. 
They  were  the  text  from  which  I  preached  my  sermon.  He  writes 
that  he  is  ''glad  they  have  so  much  life  left  in  them  after  forty 
years. But  tho^e  verses  will  never  die.  They  tell  in  a  few 
lines  all  I  tried  to  tell  on  three  hundred  pages.  The  other  letter 
was  written  when  he  had  read  the  book.    I  reproduce  it  here. 

For  myself  I  have  never  been  able  to  satisfactorily  explain 
the  great  run  ''How  the  Other  Half  Lives''  had.  It  is  a  curi- 
ously popular  book  even  to-day.  Perhaps  it  was  that  I  had  had 
it  in  me  so  long  that  it  burst  out  at  last  with  a  rush  that  caught 
on.  The  title  had  a  deal  to  do  with  it.  Mr.  Ho  wells  asked  me 
once  where  I  got  it.  I  did  not  get  it.  It  came  of  itself.  Like 
Topsy,  it  growed.  It  had  run  in  my  mind  ever  since  I  thought 
of  the  things  I  tried  to  describe.    Then  there  was  the  piece  of 


200         THE  MAKING  OF  AN  AMERICAN 


real  good  luck  that  Booth's  Darkest  England''  was  pub- 
lished just  then.  People  naturally  asked,  ''how  about  New 
York?''  That  winter  Ward  McAllister  wrote  his  book  about 
society  as  he  had  found  it,  and  the  circuit  was  made.  Ministers 
preached  about  the  contrast.  ''How  the  Other  Half  Lives" 
ran  from  edition  to  edition.  There  was  speedily  a  demand  for 
more  "copy,"  and  I  wrote  "The  Children  of  the  Poor,"  following 
the  same  track.  Critics  said  there  were  more  "bones"  in  it, 
but  it  was  never  popular  like  the  "Other  Half." 

By  "bones"  I  suppose  they  meant  facts  to  tie  to.  They 
were  scarce  enough  at  that  stage  of  the  inquiry.  I  have  in  my 
desk  a  table  giving  the  ages  at  which  children  get  their  teeth 
that  bears  witness  to  that.  I  had  been  struggling  with  the  prob- 
lem of  child-labor  in  some  East  Side  factories,  and  was  not 
making  any  headway.  The  children  had  certificates,  one  and 
all,  declaring  them  to  be  "fourteen,"  and  therefore  fit  to  be 
employed.  It  was  perfectly  evident  that  they  were  not  ten  in 
scores  of  cases,  but  the  employer  shrugged  his  shoulders  and 
pointed  to  the  certificate.  The  father,  usually  a  tailor,  would 
not  listen  at  all,  but  went  right  on  ironing.  Thera  was  no 
birth  registry  to  fall  back  on;  that  end  of  it  was  neglected. 
There  seemed  to  be  no  way  of  proving  the  fact,  yet  the  fact 
was  there  and  must  be  proven.  My  own  children  were  teething 
at  the  time,  and  it  gave  me  an  idea.  I  got  Dr.  Tracy  to  write 
out  that  table  for  me,  showing  at  what  age  the  dog-teeth  should 
appear,  when  the  molars,  etc.  Armed  with  that  I  went  into 
the  factories  and  pried  open  the  little  workers'  mouths.  The 
girls  objected :  their  teeth  were  quite  generally  bad ;  but  I 
saw  enough  to  enable  me  to  speak  positively.  Even  allowing 
for  the  backwardness  of  the  slum,  it  was  clear  that  a  child  that 
had  not  yet  grown  its  dog-teeth  was  not  "fourteen,"  for  they 
should  have  been  cut  at  twelve  at  the  latest.  Three  years 
later  the  Reinharat  Committee  reported  to  the  Legislature 


I  BECOME  AN  AUTHOR 


201 


that  the  net  result  of  the  Factory  Law  was  a  mass  of  perjury 
and  child-labor,  and  day  began  to  dawn  for  the  little  ones,  too. 

Rough  ways  and  rough  work?  Yes,  but  you  must  use  the 
tools  that  come  to  hand,  and  be  glad  for  them,  if  you  want  to 
get  things  done.  Bl^idgeons  were  needed  just  then,  and,  after 
all,  you  can  get  a  good  deal  of  fun  out  of  one  when  it  is  needed. 
I  know  I  did.  By  that  time  the  whole  battle  with  the  slum  had 
evolved  itself  out  of  the  effort  to  clean  one  pig-sty,  and,  as  for 
my  own  share  in  it,  to  settle  for  one  dead  dog.  It  was  raging 
all  along  the  line  with  demands  for  tenement-house  reform  and 
the  destruction  of  the  old  rookeries;  for  parks  for  the  people 
who  were  penned  up  in  the  slum;  for  playgrounds  for  their 
children;  for  decent  teaching  and  decent  schools.  There  were 
too  many  dark  spots  in  New  York  where  we  had  neither.  So 
dense  was  the  ignorance  of  the  ruling  powers  of  the  needs  and 
real  condition  of  the  pubhc  schools,  which,  on  parade  days, 
they  spoke  of  sententiously  as  the  comer-stone  of  our  liberties,'^ 
while  the  people  cheered  the  sentiment,  that  it  was  related 
how  a  Tammany  ]Mayor  had  appointed  to  the  office  of  school 
trustee  in  the  Third  Ward  a  man  who  had  been  dead  a  whole 
year,  and  how,  when  the  world  marvelled,  it  had  been  laughed 
off  at  the  City  Hall  with  the  comment  that  what  did  it  matter : 
there  were  no  schools  in  the  ward ;  it  was  the  wholesale  grocery 
district.  I  do  not  know  how  true  it  was,  but  there  was  no 
reason  why  it  might  not  be.  It  was  exactly  on  a  par  with  the 
rest  of  it.  I  do  not  mean  to  say  that  there  were  no  good  schools 
in  New  York.  There  were  some  as  good  as  anywhere;  for 
there  were  high-souled  teachers  who  redeemed  even  the  slough 
we  were  in  from  utter  despair.  But  they  were  there  in  spite 
of  it  and  they  were  far  from  being  the  rule.  Let  us  hope  for 
the  day  when  that  shall  have  been  reversed  as  a  statement  of 
fact.  No  one  wall  hail  it  more  gladly  than  1.  There  is  an  easy 
way  of  putting  it  to  the  test ;  we  did  it  once  before.  Broach 


202         THE  MAKING  OF  AN  AMERICAN 


a  measure  of  school  reform  and  see  what  the  question  is  that  will 
be  asked  by  the  teachers.  If  it  is,  ''How  is  it  going  to  benefit 
the  children?^'  hoist  the  flag ;  the  day  of  dehverance  is  at  hand. 
In  the  battle  I  refer  to  that  question  was  not  asked  once.  The 
teachers  stood  shoulder  to  shoulder  for  their  rights,  let  the 
children  fare  as  they  might. 

However,  that  is  an  old  grievance.  We  had  it  out  over  it 
once,  and  I  have  no  mind  to  rip  it  up  again  unless  it  is  needed. 
My  own  father  was  a  teacher ;  perhaps  that  is  one  reason  why 
I  revere  the  calling  so  that  I  would  keep  its  skirts  clear  of  pohtics 
at  an}^  hazard.  Another  is  that  I  most  heartily  subscribe  to 
the  statement  that  the  public  school  is  the  corner-stone  of  our 
liberties,  and  to  the  sentiment  that  would  keep  the  flag  flying 
over  it  always.  Only  I  want  as  much  respect  for  the  flag:  a 
clean  school  under  an  unsoiled  flag !  So  we  shall  pull  through ; 
not  otherwise.    The  thing  requires  no  argument. 

My  own  effort  in  that  fight  was  mainly  for  decent  school- 
houses,  for  playgrounds,  and  for  a  truant  school  to  keep  the 
boys  out  of  jail.  If  I  was  not  competent  to  argue  over  the  cur- 
riculum with  a  professor  of  pedagogy,  I  could  tell,  at  least,  if  a 
schoolroom  was  so  jammed  that  to  let  me  pass  into  the  next 
room  the  children  in  the  front  seat  had  to  rise  and  stand;  or 
if  there  was  light  enough  for  them  to  see  their  slates  or  the  black- 
board. Nor  did  it  take  the  wisdom  of  a  Solomon  to  decide 
that  a  dark  basement  room,  thirty  by  fifty  feet,  full  of  rats, 
was  not  a  proper  place  for  a  thousand  children  to  call  their  only 
^'play^^round.'^  Play,  in  the  kindergarten  scheme,  is  the 
''normal  occupation  of  the  child  through  which  he  first  begins 
to  perceive  moral  relations.'^  Nice  kind  of  morals  burrowed 
there  for  him !  There  was,  in  the  whole  of  Manhattan,  but 
a  single  outdoor  playground  attached  to  a  public  school,  and 
that  was  an  old  burial-ground  in  First  Street  that  had  been 
wrested  from  the  dead  with  immense  toil.    When  I  had  fed 


I  BEC0:\1E  AX  AUTHOR 


203 


fat  my  grudge  upon  these  things,  I  could  still  go  where  the 
pubHc  school  children  came,  and  learn,  by  a  little  judicious 
pumping,  how  my  friend,  the  professor,  had  stored  their  minds. 
That  is,  if  they  did  not  come  to  me.  Many  hundreds  of  them  did, 
when  under  Roosevelt  we  needed  two  thousand  new  policemen, 
and  it  was  from  some  of  them  we  learned  that  among  the  thirteen 
States  which  fomied  the  Union  were  England,  Ireland,  Wales, 
Belfast,  and  Cork'';  that  Abraham  Lincoln  was  '^murdered 
b}^  Ballington  Booth,''  and  that  the  Fire  Department  was  in 
charge  of  the  cit}"  government  when  the  Mayor  was  away. 
Don't  I  wish  it  were,  and  that  they  would  turn  the  hose  on  a 
while  !    What  a  lot  of  trouble  it  would  save  us  m  November. 

As  for  a  truant  school,  the  lack  of  one  was  the  worst  outrage 
of  all,  for  it  compelled  the  sending  of  boys,  who  had  done  no  worse 
harm  than  to  play  hooky  on  a  sunny  spring  day,  to  a  jail  with 
iron  bars  in  the  windows.  For  the  boy  who  did  this  T\icked 
thing  —  let  me  be  plain  about  it  and  say  that  if  he  had  not ; 
if  he  had  patiently  prefen'od  some  of  the  schools  I  knew  to  a  day 
of  freedom  out  in  the  sunshine,  I  should  have  thought  him  a 
miserable  little  lunkhead  quite  beyond  hope.  As  for  those  who 
locked  him  up,  almost  nothing  I  can  think  of  would  be  bad 
enough  for  them.  The  whole  effort  of  societ}^  should  be,  and 
is  getting  to  be  more  and  more,  thank  goodness  and  common 
sense,  to  keep  the  boy  out  of  jail.  To  run  to  it  ^^dth  him  the 
moment  the  sap  begins  to  boil  up  in  him  and  he  does  any  one 
of  the  thousand  things  we  have  all  done  or  wanted  to  do  if  we 
dared,  wh}^  it  is  sinful  folly.  I  am  not  saying  that  there  are 
not  boys  who  ought  to  be  in  jail,  though  to  my  mind  it  is  the 
poorest  use  you  can  put  them  to ;  but  to  put  truants  there,  to 
learn  all  the  tricks  the  jail  has  to  teach,  with  them  in  the  frame 
of  mind  in  which  it  receives  them,  —  for  boys  are  not  fools, 
w^hatever  those  who  are  set  over  them  may  be,  and  they  know 
when  they  are  ill-used,  —  I  know  of  nothing  so  wickedly  waste- 


204 


THE  MAKING  OF  AN  AMERICAN 


ful.  That  was  our  way ;  is  still  in  fact,  to  a  large  extent,  though 
the  principle  has  been  disavowed  as  both  foul  and  foolish.  But 
in  those  days  the  defenders  of  the  system  —  Heaven  save  the 
mark !  —  fought  for  it  yet,  and  it  was  give  and  take  right  along, 
every  day  and  all  day. 

Before  this,  in  time  to  bear  a  strong  hand  in  it  all,  there  had 
come  into  the  field  a  new  force  that  was  destined  to  give  both 
energy  and  direction  to  our  scattered  efforts  for  reform.  Up 
till  then  we  had  been  a  band  of  guerillas,  the  incentive  proceeding 
usually  from  Dr.  Fehx  Adler,  Mrs.  Josephine  Shaw  Lowell, 
or  some  one  of  their  stamp ;  and  the  rest  of  us  joining  in  to  push 
that  cart  up  the  hill,  then  taking  time  to  breathe  until  another 
came  along  that  needed  a  lift.  The  social  settlements,  starting 
as  neighborhood  guilds  to  reassert  the  lost  brotherhood,  be- 
came almost  from  the  first  the  fulcrum,  as  it  were,  whence  the 
lever  for  reform  was  applied,  because  the  whole  idea  of  that 
reform  was  to  better  the  lot  of  those  whom  the  prosperous  up- 
town knew  vaguely  only  as  ^Hhe  poor."  If  parks  were  wanted, 
if  schools  needed  bettering,  there  were  at  the  College  Settle- 
ment, the  University  Settlement,  the  Nurses'  Settlement,  and 
at  a  score  of  other  such  places,  young  enthusiasts  to  collect  the 
facts  and  to  urge  them,  with  the  prestige  of  their  non-political 
organization  to  back  them.  The  Hull  House  out  in  Chicago 
set  the  pace,  and  it  was  kept  up  bravely  at  this  end  of  the  line. 
For  one,  I  attached  myself  as  a  kind  of  volunteer  auxiliary" 
to  the  College  Settlement  —  that  was  what  the  girls  there  called 
me  —  and  to  any  one  that  would  have  me,  and  so  in  a  few  years* 
time  slid  easily  into  the  day  when  my  ruder  methods  were  quite 
out  of  date  and  ready  to  be  shelved. 

How  it  came  about  that,  almost  before  I  knew  it,  my  tongue 
was  enlisted  in  the  fight  as  well  as  my  pen  I  do  not  know  myself. 
It  could  not  be  because  I  had  a  '^silver-tongue,''  for  I  read  in  the 
local  ne^'spaper  one  day  when  I  had  been  lecturing  in  the  western 


I  BECOME  AX  AUTHOR 


205 


part  of  the  state  that  "sl  voluble  German  with  a  voice  like  a 
squeaky  cellar-door''  had  been  in  town.  It  seems  that  I  had 
fallen  into  another  newspaper  row,  all  unsuspecting,  and  was 
in  the  opposition  editor's  camp.  But,  truly,  I  lay  no  claim  to 
eloquence.  So  it  must  have  been  the  facts,  again.  There  is 
nothing  like  them.  Whatever  it  was,  it  made  me  smile  some- 
times in  the  middle  of  a  speech  to  think  of  the  prophecies  when 
I  was  a  schoolboy  that  '^my  tongue  would  be  my  undoing," 
for  here  it  was  helping  right  wrongs  instead.  In  fact,  that  was 
what  it  had  tried  to  do  in  the  old  days  when  the  teachers  were 
tyrannical.  It  entered  the  lists  here  when  Will  Craig,  a  clerk 
in  the  Health  Department,  with  whom  I  had  struck  up  a  friend- 
ship, helped  me  turn  my  photographs  into  magic-lantern  shdes 
by  paying  the  bills,  and  grew  from  that,  until  now  my  winters 
are  spent  on  the  lecture  platform  altogether.  I  always  Uked  the 
work.  It  tires  less  than  office  routine,  and  you  feel  the  touch 
with  your  fellows  more  than  when  you  sit  and  write  your  mes- 
sage. Also,  if  you  wish  to  learn  about  a  thing,  the  best  way  is 
always  to  go  and  try  to  teach  some  one  else  that  thing.  I  never 
make  a  speech  on  a  subject  I  am  familiar  with  but  that  I  come 
away  knowing  more  about  it  than  I  did  at  the  start,  though  no 
one  else  may  have  said  a  word. 

Then  there  is  tho  chainnan.  You  never  can  tell  what  sort  of 
surprise  is  in  store  for  you.  In  a  Massachusetts  town  last  winter 
I  was  hailed  on  the  stage  by  one  of  his  tribe,  a  gaunt,  funereal 
sort  of  man,  who  wanted  to  know  what  he  should  say  about  me. 

^'Oh,''  said  I,  in  a  spirit  of  levity,  ^^say  anything  you  like. 
Say  I  am  the  most  distinguished  citizen  in  the  country.  They 
generally  do.'' 

Wliereupon  my  funereal  friend  marched  upon  the  stage  and 
calmly  announced  to  the  audience  that  he  did  not  know  this 
man  Riis,  whom  he  was  charged  with  introducing,  never  heard 
of  him. 


206         THE  MAKING  OF  AN  AMERICAN 


^'He  tells  me,"  he  went  on  with  never  a  mnk,  ^'that  he  is  the 
most  distinguished  citizen  in  the  country.  You  can  judge  for 
yourselves  when  you  have  heard  him." 

I  thought  at  first  it  was  some  bad  kind  of  joke ;  but  no  !  He 
was  not  that  kind  of  man.  I  do  not  suppose  he  had  smiled 
since  he  was  born.  Maj^be  he  was  an  undertaker.  Assuredly, 
he  ought  to  be.  But  he  had  bowels  after  all.  Instead  of  going 
off  the  stage  and  leaving  me  blue  with  rage,  he  stayed  to  exhort 
the  audience  in  a  fifteen  minutes'  speech  to  vote  right,  or  some- 
thing of  that  sort.  The  single  remark,  when  at  last  he  turned 
his  back,  that  it  was  a  rehef  to  have  hun  ^^extinguished,"  made 
us  men  and  brothers,  that  audience  and  me.  I  think  of  him 
with  almost  as  much  pleasure  as  I  do  of  that  city  editor  chap 
out  in  ininois  who  came  blowing  upon  the  platform  at  the  last 
minute  and  handed  me  a  typewritten  speech  with  the  question 
if  that  would  do.  I  read  it  over.  It  began  with  the  statement 
that  it  was  the  general  impression  that  all  newspapermen  were 
liars,  and  went  on  by  easy  stages  to  point  out  that  there  were 
exceptions,  myself  for  instance.  The  rest  was  a  lot  of  praise 
to  which  I  had  no  claim.  I  said  so,  and  that  I  wished  he  would 
leave  it  out. 

^^Oh,  well,"  he  said,  with  a  happy  smile, don't  you  see  it 
gives  you  your  cue.  Then  you  can  turn  around  and  say  that 
anyway  I  am  a  liar." 

'  With  tongue  or  pen,  the  argument  shaped  itself  finally  into 
the  fundamental  one  for  the  rescue  of  the  home  imperilled  by 
the  slum.  There  all  roads  met.  Good  citizenship  hung  upon 
that  issue.  Say  what  you  will,  a  man  cannot  five  hke  a  pig  and 
vote  like  a  man.  The  dullest  of  us  saw  it.  The  tenement  had 
given  to  New  York  the  name  of  ^'the  homeless  city."  But 
with  that  gone  which  made  life  worth  living,  what  were  liberty 
worth  ?  With  no  home  to  cherish,  how  long  before  love  of  coun- 
try wouM  be  an  empty  sound  ?    Life,  hberty,  pursuit  of  happi- 


I  BECOME  AN  AUTHOR 


207 


ness?  Wind!  says  the  slum,  and  the  slum  is  right  if  we  let  it 
be.  We  cannot  get  rid  of  the  tenements  that  shelter  two  mil- 
hon  souls  in  New  York  to-day,  but  we  set  about  making  them 
at  least  as  nearly  fit  to  harbor  human  souls  as  might  be.  That 
will  take  a  long  time  yet.  But  a  beginning  was  made.  With 
reform  looming  upon  the  heels  of  the  Lexow  disclosures  came  the 
Gilder  Tenement-House  Commission  in  the  autumn  of  1894. 

Greater  work  was  never  done  for  New  York  than  by  that 
faithful  body  of  men.  The  measure  of  it  is  not  to  be  found  in 
what  was  actualh^  accomphshed,  though  the  volume  of  that 
was  great,  but  in  what  it  made  possible.  Upon  the  founda- 
tions they  laid  dowm  we  may  build  for  all  time  and  be  the  better 
for  it.  Light  and  air  acquired  a  legal  claim,  and  where  the  sun 
shines  into  the  slum,  the  slum  is  doomed.  The  worst  tenements 
were  destroyed ;  parks  were  opened,  schools  built,  playgrounds 
made.  The  children's  rights  were  won  back  for  them.  The 
slum  denied  them  even  the  chance  to  live,  for  it  was  showTi  that 
the  worst  rear  tenements  murdered  the  babies  at  the  rate  of 
one  in  five.  The  Commission  made  it  clear  that  the  legislation 
that  was  needed  was  '^the  kind  that  would  root  out  every  old 
ramshackle  disease-breeding  tenement  in  the  city.''  That  was 
the  way  to  begin  it.  As  to  the  rest  of  them,  it  laid  the  founda- 
tion deeper  yet,  fo''  it  made  us  see  that  life  in  them  conduces 
to  the  corruption  of  the  young."  That  told  it  all.  It  meant 
that  a  mortgage  was  put  on  the  civic  life  of  the  morrow,  which 
was  not  to  be  borne.    Wc  were  forewarned. 

The  corruption  of  the  3'ouhg !  We  move  with  rapid  strides 
in  our  time.  That  which  was  a  threat  scoffed  at  by  many,  has 
become  a  present  and  dreadful  peril  in  half  a  dozen  brief  years. 
We  took  a  short  cut  to  make  it  that  when  we  tried  to  drain  the 
pool  of  police  blackmail  of  which  the  Lexow  disclosures  had 
sho"^^i  us  the  hideous  'depths.  We  drained  it  into  the  tenements, 
and  for  the  police  infamy  got  a  real-estate  blackmail  that  is 


208 


THE  MAKING  OP^  AN  AMERICAN 


worse.  The  chairman  of  the  Committee  of  Fifteen  tells  us 
that  of  more  than  a  hundred  tenements,  full  of  growing  children, 
which  his  committee  has  canvassed,  not  one  had  escaped  the 
contamination  that  piles  up  the  landlord's  profits.  Twelve 
dollars  for  an  honest  flat,  thirty  for  the  other  kind  and  no  ques- 
tions asked !  I  find  in  my  scrap-book  this  warning,  sounded 
by  me  in  the  Christmas  hohdays,  1893,  when  the  country  was 
ringing  with  Dr.  Parkhurst's  name :  — 

*'I  would  not,  whatever  else  might  happen,  by  any  hasty  or 
ill-advised  system  of  wholesale  raids  crowd  these  women  into 
the  tenements  and  flats  of  our  city.  That  is  what  will  surely 
happen,  is  happening  now.  It  is  a  danger  infinitely  greater 
than  any  flowing  from  their  presence  where  they  are,  and  as 
they  are.  Each  centre  of  moral  contagion  by  this  scattering 
process  becomes  ten  or  twenty,  planted  where  they  will  do  the 
most  possible  harm.  Think  of  the  children  brought  in  daily, 
hourly  contact  with  this  vice  !  Think  of  the  thousands  of  young 
women  looking  vainly  for  work  this  hard  winter !  Be  there  ever 
so  little  money  for  woman's  honest  work,  there  is  always  enough 
to  buy  her  \drtue.  Have  tenement  houses  mor^l  resources 
that  can  be  trusted  to  keep  her  safe  from  this  temptation? 

^^This  is  a  wicked  villany  that  must  not  be  permitted,  come 
whatever  else  may.  We  hear  of  danger  to  ^our  young  men,' 
from  present  conditions.  What  sort  of  young  men  must  they 
be  who  would  risk  the  sacrifice  of  their  poorer  sisters  for  their 
own  'safety'?  And  it  is  being  risked  wherever  houses  of  this 
kind  are  being  shut  up  and  the  women  turned  into  the  streets, 
there  to  shift  for  themselves.  The  jail  does  not  keep  them. 
Christian  families  will  not  receive  them.  They  cannot  be 
killed.  No  door  opens  to  them :  yet  they  have  to  go  somewhere. 
And  they  go  where  they  think  they  can  hide  from  the  police 
and  still  ply  the  trade  that  gives  them  the  only  living  society 
is  williEcg  they  shall  have,  though  it  says  it  is  not." 


I  BECOME  AX  AUTHOR 


209 


And  they  did  go  there.  Dr.  Parkhurst  was  not  to  blame. 
He  was  fighting  Tamman}^  that  dealt  the  cards  and  took  all  the 
tricks,  and  for  that  fight  New  York  owes  him  a  debt  it  hardly 
yet  knows  of.  Besides,  though  those  raids  hastened  the  pro- 
cess, it  was  already  well  under  way.  The  police  extortion  of 
itself  would  have  finished  it  in  time.  A  blackmailer  in  the  long 
run  always  kills  the  goose  that  lays  his  golden  egg.  His  greed 
gets  the  better  of  his  sense.  The  inter\4ew  I  quoted  was  not  a 
plea  for  legaHzing  wrong.  That  will  get  us  no  farther.  It  was 
rather  a  summons  to  our  people  to  cease  skulking  behind  lying 
phrases  and  look  the  matter  squarely  in  the  face.  With  a  tene- 
ment-house law,  passed  this  winter,  which  sends  the  woman 
to  jail  and  fines  the  landlord  and  his  house  SIOOO,  we  shall  be 
in  the  way  shortly  of  doing  so.  Until  we  do  that  justice  first, 
I  do  not  see  how  we  can.  Poverty's  back  is  burdened  enough 
without  our  loading  upon  it  the  sins  we  are  afraid  to  face. 
Meanwhile  we  shall  be  getting  up  courage  to  talk  plainl}^  about 
it,  which  is  half  the  battle.  Think  of  the  shock  it  would  have 
given  our  grandmothers  to  hear  of  a  meeting  of  women  in  a 
public  hall  "to  protest  against  protected  vice.''  On  a  Sunday, 
too.  Come  to  think  of  it,  I  do  not  know  but  that  wholesome, 
plain  speech  on  this  subject  is  nearer  the  whole  than  half  the 
battla,    I  rather  guess  it  is. 


P 


CHAPTER  XIII 


Roosevelt  Comes  —  Mulberry  Street^s  Golden  Age 

See  now  how  things  fall  out.  Hardly  had  I  sent  the  chapter 
to  the  printer  in  which  I  posted  proof-readers  as  enemies  of  man- 
kind when  here  comes  the  proof  of  the  previous  one  with  a  cor- 
dial note  of  thanks  from  this  particular  enemy  ''for  the  inspira- 
tionhe  found  in  it.  So  then  I  was  mistaken,  as  I  have  been 
often  before,  and  owe  him  the  confession.  Good  land!  what 
are  we  that  we  should  think  ourselves  always  right,  or,  lest  we 
do  wrong,  sit  idle  all  our  lives  waiting  for  light?  The  light 
comes  as  we  work  toward  it.  Roosevelt  was  right  when  he  said 
that  the  only  one  who  never  makes  mistakes  is  the  one  vv^ho  never 
does  anything.  Preserve  us  from  him;  from  the  man  who 
eternally  wants  to  hold  the  scales  even  and  so  never  gets  done 
weighing  —  never  hands  anything  over  the  counter.  Take 
him  away  and  put  red  blood  into  his  veins.  And  let  the  rest  of 
us  go  ahead  and  make  our  mistakes  —  as  few  as  we  can,  as  many 
as  we  must ;  only  let  us  go  ahead. 

All  of  which  has  reference  to  other  things  I  have  in  mind,  not 
to  the  proof-reader,  against  whom  I  have  no  grudge  to-day.  As 
for  him,  perhaps,  he  is  just  a  sign  that  the  world  moves. 

Move  it  did  at  last  in  the  year  (1894)  that  gave  us  the  Lexow 
Investigating  Committee,  the  Citizens'  Seventy,  and  reform. 
Tammany  went  out,  speeded  on  its  way  by  Dr.  Parkhurst,  and 
an  admiiiistration  came  in  that  was  pledged  to  all  we  had  been 

210 


ROOSEVELT  COMES 


211 


longing  and  laboring  for.  For  three  years  we  had  free  hands  and 
we  used  them.  Mayor  Strong's  administration  was  not  the 
millennium,  but  it  brought  New  York  much  nearer  to  it  than  it 
had  ever  been,  and  it  set  up  some  standards  toward  which  we 
may  keep  on  striving  with  profit  to  ourselves.  The  Mayor  him- 
self was  not  a  saint.  He  was  an  honest  gentleman  of  sturdy 
purpose  to  do  the  right,  and,  normally,  of  singular  practical  wis- 
dom in  choosing  the  men  to  help  him  do  it,  but  w^ith  an  inter- 
mittent delusion  that  he  was  a  shrewd  politician.  WTien  it  came 
uppermost  he  made  bargains  and  appointed  men  to  office  who 
did  their  worst  to  undo  what  good  the  Warings,  the  Roosevelts, 
and  their  kind  had  wrought.  In  the  struggle  that  ensued  Mayor 
Strong  was  always  on  the  side  of  right,  but  when  he  w^anted  most 
to  help  he  could  not.  It  is  the  way  of  the  world.  Nevertheless, 
as  I  said,  it  moved. 

How  far  we  came  is  history,  plain  to  read  in  our  streets  that 
will  never  again  be  as  dirty  as  they  were,  though  they  may  not 
be  as  clean  as  Waring  left  them ;  in  the  threescore  splendid  new 
schoolhouses  that  stand  as  monuments  of  those  busy  years; 
in  the  open  spots  that  let  the  sunlight  into  the  slum  where  it  was 
darkest  and  most  foul ;  in  the  death  rate  that  came  down  from 
26.32  per  thousand  of  the  living  in  1887  to  19.53  in  1897.  That 
was  the  ^^Ten  Years'  War"  ^  I  wrote  about  and  have  here  before 
referred  to.  The  three  years  of  the  Strong  administration  saw 
all  the  big  battles  in  which  we  beat  the  slum.  I  am  not  going  to 
rehearse  them,  for  I  am  trying  to  tell  my  own  story,  and  now  I 
am  soon  done  wdth  it.  I  carried  a  gun  as  a  volunteer  in  that  war, 
and  that  was  all ;  not  even  in  the  ranks  at  that.  I  was  ever  an 
irregular,  given  to  sniping  on  my  own  hook.  Roosevelt,  in- 
deed, wanted  me  to  have  a  seat  among  Mayor  Strong's  official 
advisers ;  but  we  had  it  out  over  that  when  he  told  me  of  it,  and 
the  compact  we  made  that  he  should  never  ask  that  service  of 
1  Now,  "The  Battle  with  the  Slum." 


212         THE  MAKING  OF  AN  AMERICAN 


me  he  has  kept.  So  he  spared  the  Mayor  much  embarrassment ; 
for,  as  I  said,  I  am  not  good  in  the  ranks,  more  is  the  pity :  and 
me  he  saved  for  such  use  as  I  could  be  of,  which  was  well.  For 
shortly  it  all  centred  in  Mulberry  Street,  where  he  was. 

We  were  not  strangers.  It  could  not  have  been  long  after  I 
wrote  '^How  the  Other  Half  Lives''  that  he  came  to  the  Evening 
Sun  office  one  day  looking  for  me.  I  was  out,  and  he  left  his 
card,  merely  writing  on  the  back  of  it  that  he  had  read  my  book 
and  had  ''come  to  help.''  That  was  all,  and  it  tells  the  whole 
story  of  the  man.  I  loved  him  from  the  day  I  first  saw  him; 
nor  ever  in  all  the  years  that  have  passed  has  he  failed  of  the 
promise  made  then.  No  one  ever  helped  as  he  did.  For  two 
years  we  were  brothers  in  Mulberry  Street.  When  he  left  I  had 
seen  its  golden  age.  I  knew  too  well  the  evil  day  that  was  com- 
ing back  to  have  any  heart  in  it  after  that. 

Not  that  we  were  carried  heavenward  ''on  flowery  beds  of 
ease"  while  it  lasted.  There  is  very  little  ease  where  Theodore 
Roosevelt  leads,  as  we  all  of  us  found  out.  The  lawbreaker 
found  it  out  who  predicted  scornfully  that  he  would  "knuckle 
down  to  politics  the  way  they  all  did,"  and  lived  to  respect  him, 
though  he  swore  at  him,  as  the  one  of  them  all  who  was  stronger 
than  pull.  The  peace-loving  citizen  who  hastened  to  Police 
Headquarters  with  anxious  entreaties  to  "use  discretion"  in 
the  enforcement  of  unpopular  laws  found  it  out  and  went  away 
with  a  new  and  breathless  notion  welling  up  in  him  of  an  official's 
sworn  duty.  That  was  it ;  that  was  what  made  the  age  golden, 
that  for  the  first  time  a  moral  purpose  came  into  the  street.  In 
the  light  of  it  everything  was  transformed. 

Not  all  at  once.  It  took  us  weary  months  to  understand  that 
the  shouting  about  the  "enforcement  of  the  dead  Excise  Law" 
was  lying  treachery  or  rank  ignorance,  one  as  bad  as  the  other. 
The  Excise  Law  was  not  dead.  It  was  never  so  much  alive  as 
under  Tammany,  but  it  was  enforced  only  against  those  saloon- 


ROOSEVELT  COMES 


213 


keepers  who  needed  discipline.  It  was  a  Tammany  club,  used 
to  drive  them  into  camp  with ;  and  it  was  used  so  vigorously 
that  no  less  than  eight  thousand  arrests  were  made  under  it  in 
the  year  before  Roosevelt  made  them  all  close  up.  Pretty  lively 
corpse,  that !  But  we  understood  at  last,  most  of  us ;  under- 
stood that  the  tap-root  of  the  police  blackmail  was  there,  and 
that  it  had  to  be  pulled  up  if  w^e  were  ever  to  get  farther.  AYe 
understood  that  we  were  the  victims  of  our  own  shanaming,  and 
we  grew  to  be  better  citizens  for  it.  The  police  force  became  an 
army  of  heroes  —  for  a  season.  All  the  good  in  it  came  cut ; 
and  there  is  a  lot  of  it  in  the  worst  of  times.  Roosevelt  had  the 
true  philosopher's  stone  that  turns  dross  to  gold,  in  his  own 
sturdy  faith  in  his  fellow-man.  Men  became  good  because  he 
thought  them  so. 

By  which  I  am  not  to  be  understood  as  meaning  that  he  just 
voted  them  good  —  the  police,  for  instance  —  and  sat  by  wait- 
ing to  see  the  wings  grow.  No,  but  he  helped  them  sprout.  It 
is  long  since  I  have  enjoyed  anything  so  much  as  I  did  those 
patrol  trips  of  ours  on  the  '^last  tour''  between  midnight  and 
sunrise,  w^hich  earned  for  him  the  name  of  Haroun  al  Roosevelt. 
I  had  at  last  found  one  who  was  willing  to  get  up  when  other 
people  slept  —  including,  too  often,  the  police  —  and  see  what 
the  town  looked  like  then.  He  was  more  than  willing.  I  laid 
out  the  route,  covering  ten  or  a  dozen  patrol-posts,  and  we  met 
at  2  A.M.  on  the  steps  of  the  Union  League  Club,  objects  of  sus- 
picion on  the  part  of  two  or  three  attendants  and  a  watchman 
who  shadowed  us  as  night-prowlers  till  we  were  out  of  their  baili- 
wick. I  shall  never  forget  that  first  morning  w^hen  we  travelled 
for  three  hours  along  First  and  Second  and  Third  avenues,  from 
Forty-second  Street  to  Bellevue,  and  found  of  ten  patrolmen 
just  one  doing  his  work  faithfully.  Two  or  three  were  chatting 
on  saloon  corners  and  guyed  the  President  of  the  Board  when  he 
asked  them  if  that  was  what  they  were  there  for.    One  was  sit- 


214 


THE  MAKING  OF  AN  AMERICAN 


ting  asleep  on  a  butter-tub  in  the  middle  of  the  sidewalk,  snoring 
so  that  you  could  hear  him  across  the  street,  and  was  inclined 
to  be  ''sassy"  when  aroused  and  told  to  go  about  his  duty.  Mr. 
Roosevelt  was  a  most  energetic  roundsman  and  a  fair  one  to 
boot.  It  was  that  quality  which  speedily  won  him  the  affection 
of  the  force.  He  hunted  high  and  low  before  he  gave  up  his 
man,  giving  him  every  chance.  We  had  been  over  one  man's 
beat  three  times,  searching  every  nook  and  cranny  of  it,  and 
were  reluctantly  compelled  to  own  that  he  was  not  there,  when 
the  ''boss"  of  an  all-night  restaurant  on  Third  Avenue  came  out 
with  a  club  as  we  passed  and  gave  the  regulation  signal  raps  on 
the  sidewalk.  There  was  some  trouble  in  his  place.  Three 
times  he  repeated  the  signal  calling  for  the  patrolman  on  the  beat 
before  he  turned  to  Roosevelt,  who  stood  by,  with  the  angry 
exclamation :  — 

"Where  in  thunder  does  that  copper  sleep?  He  orter'd  tole 
me  when  he  giv'  up  the  barber-shop,  so's  a  fellow  could  find  him." 

We  didn't  nnd  him  then,  but  he  found  the  President  of  the 
Board  later  on  when  summoned  to  Police  Headquarters  to  ex- 
plain why  he  had  changed  his  sleeping  quarters.  The  whole 
force  woke  up  as  a  result  of  that  night's  work,  and  it  kept  awake 
those  two  years,  for,  as  it  learned  by  experience,  Mr.  Roosevelt's 
spectacles  might  come  gleaming  around  the  corner  at  any  hour. 
He  had  not  been  gone  a  year  before  the  Chief  found  it  necessary 
to  transfer  half  the  force  in  an  up-town  precinct  to  keep  it  awake. 
The  firemen  complained  that  fires  at  night  gained  too  much  head- 
way while  the  police  slept.  There  was  no  Roosevelt  to  wake 
them  up. 

Looking  after  his  patrolmen  was  not  the  only  errand  that  took 
him  abroad  at  night.  As  PoHce  President,  Mr.  Roosevelt  was 
a  member  of  the  Health  Board,  and  sometimes  it  was  the  tene- 
ments we  went  inspecting  when  the  tenants  slept.  He  was  after 
facts,  and  learned  speedily  to  get  them  as  he  could.    When,  as 


ROOSEVELT  CO:\IES 


215 


Governor,  he  wanted  to  know  just  how  the  Factor}-  Law  was 
being  executed,  he  came  down  from  Alban}-  and  spent  a  whole 
day  with  me  personally  investigating  tenements  in  which  sweat- 
ing was  carried  on.  I  had  not  found  a  Governor  before,  or  a 
Police  President  either,  who  would  do  it ;  but  so  he  learned  ex- 
actly what  he  wanted  to  know,  and  what  he  ought  to  do,  and 
did  it. 

I  never  saw  Theodore  Roosevelt  to  better  advantage  than 
when  he  confronted  the  labor  men  at  their  meeting-place,  Clar- 
endon Hall.  The  police  were  all  the  time  having  trouble  with 
strikers  and  their  ''pickets.'^  Roosevelt  saw  that  it  was  because 
neither  party  understood  fully  the  position  of  the  other  and, 
with  his  usual  directness,  sent  word  to  the  labor  organizations 
that  he  would  like  to  talk  it  over  with  them.  At  his  request  I 
went  with  him  to  the  meeting.  It  developed  almost  immediately 
that  the  labor  men  had  taken  a  wrong  measure  of  the  man. 
They  met  him  as  a  politician  playing  for  points,  and  hinted  at 
trouble  unless  their  den  ands  were  met.  Mr.  Roosevelt  broke 
them  off  short :  — 

'^Gentlemen  he  said,  with  that  snap  of  the  jaws  that  always 
made  people  listen,  Tasked  to  meet  you,  hophig  that  we  might 
come  to  understand  one  another.  Remember,  please,  before 
we  go  farther,  that  the  worst  injury  any  one  of  you  can  do  to  the 
cause  of  labor  is  to  counsel  violence.  It  will  also  be  worse  for 
himself.  Understand  distinctly  that  order  will  be  kept.  The 
police  will  keep  it.    Now  we  can  proceed.'' 

I  was  never  so  proud  and  pleased  as  when  they  applauded  him 
to  the  echo.  He  reddened  with  pleasure,  for  he  saw  that  the  best 
in  them  had  come  out  on  top,  as  he  expected  it  would. 

It  was  of  this  incident  that  a  handle  was  first  made  by  Mr. 
Roosevelt's  enemies  in  and  out  of  the  Police  Board  —  and  he 
had  many  —  to  attack  him.  It  happened  that  there  was  a 
music  hall  in  the  building  in  which  the  labor  men  met.  The 


216 


THE  MAKING  OF  AN  AMERICAN 


yellow  newspapers  circulated  the  lie  that  he  went  there  on  pur- 
pose to  see  the  show,  and  the  ridiculous  story  was  repeated  until 
the  liars  nearly  persuaded  themselves  that  it  was  so.  They 
would  not  have  been  able  to  understand  the  kind  of  man  they 
had  to  do  with,  had  they  tried.  Accordingly  they  fell  into  their 
own  trap.  It  is  a  tradition  of  Mulberry  Street  that  the  notorious 
Seeley  dinner  raid  was  planned  by  his  enemies  in  the  department 
of  which  he  was  the  head,  in  the  belief  that  they  would  catch 
Mr.  Roosevelt  there.    The  diners  were  supposed  to  be  his  "set." 

Some  time  after  that  I  was  in  his  office  one  day  when  a  police 
official  of  superior  rank  came  in  and  requested  private  audience 
with  him.  They  stepped  aside  and  the  policeman  spoke  in  an 
undertone,  urging  something  strongly.  Mr.  Roosevelt  listened. 
Suddenly  I  saw  him  straighten  up  as  a  man  recoils  from  some- 
thing unclean  and  dismiss  the  other  with  a  sharp:  "No,  sir! 
I  don't  fight  that  way."  The  policeman  went  out  crestfallen. 
Roosevelt  took  two  or  three  turns  about  the  floor  struggling 
evidently  with  strong  disgust.  He  told  me  afterward  that  the 
man  had  come  to  him  with  what  he  said  was  certain  knowledge 
that  his  enemy  could  that  night  be  found  in  a  known  evil  house 
up-town,  which  it  was  his  alleged  habit  to  visit.  His  proposi- 
tion was  to  raid  it  then  and  so  "get  square."  To  the  policeman 
it  must  have  seemed  like  throwing  a  good  chance  away.  But 
it  was  not  Roosevelt^s  way  ;  he  struck  no  blow  below  the  belt. 
In  the  Governor's  chair  afterward  he  gave  the  politicians  whom 
he  fought,  and  who  fought  him,  the  same  terms.  They  tried 
their  huit  to  upset  him,  for  they  had  nothing  to  expect  from  him. 
But  they  knew  and  owned  that  he  fought  fair.  Their  backs 
were  secure.  He  never  tricked  them  to  gain  an  advantage.  A 
promise  given  by  him  was  always  kept  to  the  letter. 

Failing  to  trap  him  only  added  to  the  malignity  of  his  enemies. 
Roosevelt  was  warned  that  he  was  "shadowed"  night  and  day, 
but  he  lavghed  their  scheming  to  scorn.    It  is  an  article  of  faith 


» 

ROOSEVELT  COMES  217 


with  him  that  an  honest  man  has  nothing  to  fear  from  plotters, 
and  he  walked  unharmed-  among  their  snares.  The  whole 
country  remembers  the  year-long  fight  in  the  Police  Board  and 
Mayor  Strong's  vain  attempt  to  remove  the  obstructionist  who, 
under  an  ill-conceived  law,  was  able  to  hold  up  the  scheme  of 
reform.  Most  of  the  time  I  was  compelled  to  stand  idly  by, 
unable  to  help.  Once  I  eased  my  feelings  by  telling  Commis- 
sioner Parker  in  his  own  office  what  I  thought  of  him.  I  went 
in  and  shut  the  door,  and  then  told  it  all  to  him.  Nor  did  I 
mince  matters ;  I  might  not  get  so  good  a  chance  again.  Mr. 
Parker  sat  quite  still,  poking  the  fire.  A^Tien  I  ceased  at  last, 
angry  and  exasperated,  he  looked  up  and  said  calmly :  — 

^^Well,  Mr.  Riis,  what  you  tell  me  has  at  least  the  merit  of 
frankness. 

You  see  how  it  was.  I  should  never  have  been  able  to  help 
in  the  Board.  Out  of  it,  my  chance  came  at  last  when  it  was 
deemed  necessary  to  give  the  adversary  ''sl  character."  Mr. 
Roosevelt  had  been  speaking  to  the  Methodist  ministers,  and  as 
usual  had  carried  all  before  him.  The  community  was  getting 
up  a  temper  that  would  shortly  put  an  end  to  the  deadlock  in 
the  PoUce  Board  and  set  the  wheels  of  reform  moving  again. 
Then  one  day  we  heard  that  Commissioner  Parker  had  been 
invited  by  the  Christian  Endeavorers  of  an  up-town  church  to 
address  them  on  Christian  Citizenship. That  was  not  con- 
secrated common  sense.  I  went  to  the  convention  of  Endeavor- 
ers the  next  week  and  told  them  so.  I  asked  them  to  send  a 
despatch  to  Governor  Black  then  and  there  endorsing  Roosevelt 
and  Mayor  Strong,  and  urging  him  to  end  the  deadlock  that  made 
pubUc  scandal  by  remo\dng  Commissioner  Parker;  and  they 
did.  I  regret  to  say  that  I  felt  compelled  to  take  a  like  course 
with  the  Methodist  ministers,  for  so  I  grieved  a  most  good- 
natured  gentleman.  Colonel  Grant,  who  was  Mr.  Parker's  ally 
in  the  Board.    Grant  was  what  was  described  as  ^'a  great 


218 


THE  MAKING  OF  AN  AMERICAN 


Methodist.'^  But  I  feel  sure  that  Brother  Simmons  would  have 
approved  of  me.  I  was  following  the  course  he  laid  down.  The 
one  loyal  friend  Mr.  Roosevelt  had  in  the  Board  was  Avery  D. 
Andrews,  a  strong,  sensible,  and  clean  young  man,  who  stood  by 
his  chief  to  the  last,  and  left  with  him  a  good  mark  on  the  force. 

The  yellow  newspapers  fomented  most  industriously  the 
trouble  in  the  Board,  never  faihng  to  take  the  wrong  side  of  any 
question.  One  of  them  set  about  doling  out  free  soup  that 
winter,  when  work  was  slack,  as  a  means,  of  course,  of  advertising 
its  own  charity.'^  Of  all  forms  of  indiscriminate  almsgiving, 
that  is  the  most  offensive  and  most  worthless,  and  they  knew  it, 
or  they  would  not  have  sent  me  a  wheedling  invitation  to  come 
and  inspect  their  relief  work,''  offering  to  have  a  carriage  take 
me  around.  I  sent  word  back  that  I  should  certainly  look  into 
the  soup,  but  that  I  should  go  on  foot  to  it.  Roosevelt  and  I 
made  the  inspection  together.  We  questioned  the  tramps  in 
line,  and  learned  from  their  own  hps  that  they  had  come  from 
out  of  town  to  take  it  easy  in  a  city  where  a  man  did  not  have  to 
work  to  live.  We  followed  the  pails  that  were  carried  away 
from  the  relief  station''  by  children,  their  contents  sometimes 
to  figure  afterwards  as  ^^free  lunch"  in  the  saloon  where  they  had 
been  exchanged  for  beer ;  and,  knowing  the  facts,  we  denounced 
the  thing  as  a  nuisance.  The  paper  printed  testimonials  from 
Commissioners  Parker  and  Grant,  who  certified  from  Mulberry 
Street,  which  they  had  not  left,  that  the  soup  was  a  noble 
Christian  charity,  and  so  thought  it  evened  things  up,  I  suppose. 
I  notioed,  however,  that  the  soup  ran  out  soon  after,  and  I  hope 
we  have  seen  the  last  of  it.  We  can  afford  to  leave  that  to 
Philadelphia,  where  common  sense  appears  to  be  drowned  in  it. 

I  had  it  out  with  them  at  last  all  together.  When  I  have  told 
of  it  let  the  whole  wretched  thing  depart  and  be  gone  for  good. 
It  was  after  Roosevelt  had  gone  away.  That  he  was  not  there 
was  no  b^r  to  almost  daily  attacks  on  him,  under  which  I  chafed, 


ROOSEVELT  CO:\IES 


219 


sitting  at  the  meetings  as  a  reporter.  I  knew  right  well  they 
were  intended  to  provoke  me  to  an  explosion  that  might  have 
given  grounds  for  annoying  me,  and  I  kept  my  temper  until  one 
day,  when,  the  subject  of  dives  being  mentioned.  Commissioner 
Parker  drawled,  with  the  reporter  from  the  soup  journal  whisper- 
ing in  his  ear :  —  . 

Was  not  —  er-r  —  that  the  place  where  —  er-r  —  Mr. 
Roosevelt  went  to  see  a  show  \\ith  his  friend?'' 

He  was  careful  not  to  look  in  my  direction,  but  the  reporter 
did,  and  I  leaped  at  the  challenge.  I  waited  until  the  Board  had 
formally  adjourned,  then  halted  it  as  Mr.  Parker  was  trying  to 
escape.  I  do  not  now  remember  what  I  said.  It  would  not 
make  calm  reading,  I  suspect.  It  was  the  truth,  anyhow,  and 
came  pretty  near  being  the  whole  truth.  Mr.  Parker  fled, 
putting  his  head  back  through  the  half-closed  door  to  explain 
that  he  ''only  knew  what  that  reporter  told"  him.  In  the 
security  of  his  room  it  must  have  occurred  to  him,  however,  that 
he  had  another  string  to  his  bow ;  for  at  the  next  session  Com- 
missioner Grant  moved  my  expulsion  because  1  had  ''disturbed 
the  Board  meeting."  But  President  Moss  reminded  him  curtly 
that  I  had  done  nothing  of  the  kind,  and  that  ended  it. 

One  of  the  early  and  sensational  results  of  reform  in  Mulberry 
Street  was  the  retirement  of  Superintendent  Byrnes.  There  was 
not  one  of  us  all  who  had  known  him  long  who  did  not  regret  it, 
though  I,  for  one,  had  to  own  the  necessity  of  it ;  for  Byrnes  stood 
for  the  old  days  that  were  bad.  But,  chained  as  he  was  in  the 
meanness  and  smallness  of  it  all,  he  was  yet  cast  in  a  different 
mould.  Compared  with  his  successor,  he  was  a  giant  every  wa3^ 
Byrnes  was  a  "big  policeman."  We  shall  not  soon  have  another 
like  him,  and  that  may  be  both  good  and  bad.  He  was  unscru- 
pulous, he  was  for  B3'rnes  —  he  was  a  policeman,  in  short.,  with 
all  the  failings  of  the  trade.  But  he  made  the  detective  service 
great.    He  chased  the  thieves  to  Europe,  or  gave  them  license 


220         THE  MAKING  OF  AN  AMERICAN 


to  live  in  New  York  on  condition  that  they  did  not  rob  there. 
He  was  a  Czar,  with  all  an  autocrat irresponsible  powers,  and 
he  exercised  them  as  he  saw  fit.  If  they  were  not  his,  he  took 
them  anyhow;  police  service  looks  to  results  first.  There  was 
that  in  Byrnes  which  made  me  stand  up  for  him  in  spite  of  it  all. 
Twice  I  held  Dr.  Parkhurst  from  his  throat,  but  in  the  end  I  had 
to  admit  that  the  Doctor  was  right.  I  believed  that,  untram- 
melled, Byrnes  might  have  been  a  mighty  engine  for  good,  and 
it  was  with  sorrow  I  saw  him  go.  He  left  no  one  behind  him  fit 
to  wear  his  shoes. 

Byrnes  was  a  born  poHceman.  Those  who  hated  him  said  he 
was  also  a  born  tyrant.  He  did  ride  a  high  horse  when  the  fit 
was  on  him  and  he  thought  it  served  his  purpose.  So  we  came 
into  collision  in  the  early  days  when  he  was  captain  in  Mercer 
Street.  They  had  a  prisoner  over  there  with  a  story  which  I  had 
cause  to  beheve  my  rivals  had  obtained.  I  went  to  Byrnes  and 
was  thundered  out  of  the  station-house.  There  he  was  boss  and 
it  suited  him  to  let  me  see  it.  We  had  not  met  before.  But  w© 
met  again  that  night.  I  went  to  the  Superintendent  of  PoHce, 
who  was  a  Republican,  and,  applying  all  the  pressure  of  the 
Tribune^  which  I  served,  got  from  him  an  order  on  Captain 
Byrnes  to  let  me  interview  his  prisoner.  Old  Mr.  WaUing  tore 
his  hair ;  said  the  thing  had  never  been  done  before,  and  it  had 
not.  But  I  got  the  order  and  got  the  interview,  though  Byrnes, 
black  with  rage,  commanded  a  policeman  to  stand  on  either  side 
of  the  prisoner  while  I  talked  to  him.  He  himself  stood  by, 
glaring  at  me.  It  was  not  a  good  way  to  get  an  interview,  and, 
in  fact,  the  man  had  nothing  to  tell.  But  I  had  my  way  and  I 
made  the  most  of  it.  After  that  Captain  Byrnes  and  I  got  along. 
We  got  to  think  a  lot  of  each  other  after  a  while. 

Perhaps  he  was  a  tyrant  because  he  was  set  over  crooks,  and 
crooks  are  cowards  in  the  presence  of  authority.  His  famous 
*Hhird  degree^'  was  chiefly  what  he  no  doubt  considered  a  little 


ROOSEVELT  COMES 


221 


wholesome  slugging.'^  He  would  beat  a  thief  into  telling  him 
what  he  wanted  to  know\  Thieves  have  no  rights  a  policeman 
thinks  himself  bound  to  respect.  But  when  he  had  to  do  with 
men  with  minds  he  had  other  resources.  He  tortured  his 
prisoner  into  confession  in  the  Unger  murder  case  by  locking  him 
up  out  of  reach  of  a  human  voice,  or  sight  of  a  human  face,  in  the 
basement  of  Police  Headquarters,  and  keeping  him  there  four 
days,  fed  by  invisible  hands.  On  the  fifth  he  had  him  brought 
up  through  a  tortuous  way,  where  the  tools  he  had  used  in 
murdering  his  partner  were  displaj^ed  on  the  walls  as  if  by 
accident.  Led  into  the  Inspector's  presence  by  the  jailer,  he  was 
made  to  stand  while  Byrnes  finished  a  letter.  Then  he  turned 
his  piercing  glance  upon  him  with  a  gesture  to  sit.  The  mur- 
derer sank  trembling  upon  a  lounge,  the  only  piece  of  furniture 
in  the  room,  and  sprang  to  his  feet  with  a  shriek  the  next  instant : 
it  was  the  one  upon  which  he  had  slaughtered  his  friend,  all 
blood-bespattered  as  then.  He  sprawled  upon  the  floor,  a 
gibbering,  horror-stricken  wretch,  and  confessed  his  sin. 

As  in  this  instance,  so  in  the  McGloin  murder  case,  the  moral 
certainty  of  guilt  was  absolute,  but  the  legal  evidence  was  lack- 
ing. McGloin  was  a  young  ruffian  w^ho  had  murdered  a  saloon- 
keeper at  a  midnight  raid  on  his  place.  He  was  the  fellow  who 
the  night  before  he  was  hanged  invited  the  Chief  of  Detectives 
to  ^^come  over  to  the  wake ;  they'll  have  a  devil  of  a  time.''  For 
six  months  Byrnes  had  tried  everything  to  bring  the  crime  home  to 
him,  but  in  vain.  At  last  he  sent  out  and  had  McGloin  and  his  two 
''pals"  arrested,  but  so  that  none  of  them  knew  of  the  plight  of 
the  others.  McGloin  was  taken  to  Mulberry  Street,  and  orders 
were  given  to  bring  the  others  in  at  a  certain  hour  fifteen  or 
twenty  minutes  apart.  Byrnes  put  McGloin  at  the  window  in 
his  office  while  he  questioned  him.  Nothing  could  be  got  out  of 
him.  As  he  sat  there  a  door  was  banged  below.  Looking  out  he 
saw  one  of  his  friends  led  across  the  yard  in  charge  of  policemen. 


222 


THE  MAKING  OF  AN  AMERICAN 


Byrnes,  watching  him  narrowly,  saw  his  cheek  blanch ;  but  still 
his  nerve  held.    Fifteen  minutes  passed ;  another  door  banged. 
The  murderer,  looking  out,  saw  his  other  pal  led  in  a  prisoner. 
He  looked  at  Byrnes.    The  Chief  nodded  :  — 
'^Squealed,  both.'^ 

It  was  a  lie,  and  it  cost  the  man  his  life.  The  jig  is  up  then,^' 
he  said,  and  told  the  story  that  brought  him  to  the  gallows. 

I  could  not  let  Byrnes  go  without  a  word,  for  he  filled  a  large 
space  in  my  life.  It  is  the  reporter,  I  suppose,  who  sticks  out 
there.  The  boys  called  him  a  great  faker,  but  they  were  hardly 
just  to  him  in  that.  I  should  rather  call  him  a  great  actor,  and 
without  being  that  no  man  can  be  a  great  detective.  He  made 
life  in  a  mean  street  picturesque  while  he  was  there,  and  for  that 
something  is  due  him.  He  was  the  very  opposite  of  Roosevelt  — 
quite  without  moral  purpose  or  the  comprehension  of  it,  yet  with 
a  streak  of  kindness  in  him  that  sometimes  put  preaching  to 
shame.  Mulberry  Street  swears  by  him  to-day,  even  as  it  does, 
under  its  breath,  by  Roosevelt.  Decide  from  that  for  yourself 
whether  his  presence  there  was  for  the  good  or  the  bad. 

In  writing  ''How  the  Other  Half  Lives''  I  had  been  at  great 
pains  not  to  overstate  my  case.  I  knew  that  it  would  be  ques- 
tioned, and  was  anxious  that  no  flaws  should  be  picked  in  it,  for, 
if  there  were,  harm  might  easily  come  of  it  instead  of  good.  I 
saw  now  that  in  that  I  had  been  wise.  The  Gilder  Tenement- 
House  Commission  more  than  confirmed  all  that  I  had  said  about 
the  tenements  and  the  schools.  The  Reinhardt  Committee  was 
even  nore  emphatic  on  the  topic  of  child  labor.  I  was  asked  to 
serve  on  the  Seventy's  sub-committee  on  Small  Parks.  In  the 
spring  of  1896,  the  Council  of  Confederated  Good  Government 
Clubs  appointed  me  its  general  agent,  and  I  held  the  position 
for  a  year,  giving  all  my  spare  time  to  the  planning  and  carrying 
out  of  such  work  as  it  seemed  to  me  ought  to  make  a  record  for 
a  reform  administration.    We  wanted  it  to  last.    That  was  a 


ROOSEVELT  COMES 


223 


great  year.  They  wanted  a  positive  programme,  and  my  notions 
of  good  government  were  nothing  if  not  positive.  They  began 
and  ended  with  the  people's  hfe.  We  tore  down  unfit  tenements, 
forced  the  opening  of  parks  and  playgrounds,  the  establishment 
of  a  truant  school  and  the  remodelling  of  the  whole  school 
system,  the  demolition  of  the  overcrowded  old  Tombs  and  the 
erection  on  its  site  of  a  decent  new  prison.  We  overhauled  the 
civil  courts  and  made  them  over  new  in  the  charter  of  the  Greater 
New  York.  We  lighted  dark  halls;  closed  the  ''cruller" 
bakeries  in  tenement-house  cellars  that  had  caused  the  loss  of  no- 
end  of  lives ;  for  the  crullers  were  boiled  in  fat  in  the  early  morn- 
ing hours  while  the  tenants  slept,  and  when  the  fat  was  spilled 
in  the  fire  their  peril  was  awful.  We  fought  the  cable-car 
managers  at  home  and  the  opponents  of  a  truant  school  at 
Albany.  We  backed  up  Roosevelt  in  his  fight  in  the  Police 
Board,  and  —  well,  I  shall  never  get  time  to  tell  it  all.  But  it 
was  a  great  year.  That  it  did  not  keep  the  Good  Government 
clubs  alive  was  no  fault  of  my  programme.  It  was  mine,  I  guess. 
I  failed  to  inspire  them  with  the  faith  that  was  in  me.  I  had 
been  going  it  alone  so  long  that  I  did  not  know  how  to  use  the  new 
tool  that  had  come  to  hand.  There  is  nothing  like  an  organization 
if  you  know  how  to  use  it.  I  did  not.  Perhaps,  also,  politics 
had  something  to-  do  with  it.  They  were  in  for  playing  the 
game.    I  never  understood  it. 

But  if  I  did  not  make  the  most  of  it,  I  had  a  good  time  that 
year.  There  were  first  the  two  small  parks  to  be  laid  out  over 
on  the  East  Side,  where  the  Gilder  Commission  had  pointed  to 
the  smothering  crowds.  I  had  myself  made  a  member  of  the 
Citizens'  Committee  that  was  appointed  to  locate  them.  It  did 
not  take  us  any  nine  years  or  six,  or  three.  We  did  the  business 
in  three  weeks,  and  having  chosen  the  right  spots,  we  went  to  the 
Legislature  with  a  bill  authorizing  the  city  to  seize  the  property 
at  once,  ahead  of  condemnation,  and  it  was  passed.    We  were 


224 


THE  MAKING  OF  AN  AMERICAN 


afraid  that  Tammany  might  come  back,  and  the  event  proved 
that  we  were  wise.  You  bring  up  the  people  slowly  to  a  reform 
programme,  particularly  when  it  costs  money.  They  will  pay 
for  corruption  with  a  growl,  but  seem  to  think  that  virtue  ought 
always  to  be  had  for  nothing.  It  makes  the  politicians'  game 
easy.  They  steal  the  money  for  improvements,  and  predict  that 
reform  will  raise  the  tax-rate.  When  the  prophecy  comes  true, 
they  take  the  people  back  in  their  sheltering  embrace  with  an 
^^I  told  you  so!"  and  the  people  nestle  there  repentant.  There 
was  a  housing  conference  at  which  that  part  of  the  work  was 
parcelled  out :  the  building  of  model  tenements  to  the  capitalists 
who  formed  the  City  and  Suburban  Homes  Company;  the 
erection  of  model  lodging-houses  to  D.  0.  Mills,  the  banker 
philanthropist,  who  was  anxious  to  help  that  way.  I  chose  for 
the  Good  Government  clubs  the  demolition  of  the  old  tene- 
ments. It  was  my  chance.  I  hated  them.  A  law  had  been 
made  the  year  before  empowering  the  Health  Board  to  seize  and 
destroy  tenement-house  property  that  was  a  threat  to  the  city^s 
health,  but  it  had  remained  a  dead  letter.  The  authorities 
hesitated  to  attack  property  rights,  vested  rights.  Charles  G. 
Wilson,  the  President  of  the  Board,  was  a  splendid  executive, 
but  he  was  a  holdover  Tammany  appointee,  and  needed  backing. 

Now  that  Theodore  Roosevelt  sat  in  the  Health  Board,  fresh 
from  his  war  on  the  police  lodging-rooms  of  which  I  told,  they 
hesitated  no  longer.  I  put  before  the  Board  a  list  of  the  sixteen 
worst  rear  tenements  in  the  cit}'  outside  of  the  Bend,  and  while 
the  landlords  held  their  breath  in  astonishment,  they  were  seized, 
condemned,  and  their  tenants  driven  out.  The  Mott  Street 
Barracks  were  among  them.  In  1888  the  infant  death-rate 
among  the  350  Italians  they  harbored  had  been^  325  per  thou- 
sand —  that  is  to  say,  one-third  of  all  the  babies  died  that  year. 
That  was  the  kind  of  evidence  upon  which  those  rear  tenements 
were  ari-aigned.    Ninety-four  of  them,  all  told,  were  seized  that 


ROOSEVELT  COMES 


225 


year,  and  in  them  there  had  been  in  four  years  956  deaths  —  a 
rate  of  62.9  when  the  general  city  death-rate  was  24.63.  I  shall 
have  once  more,  and  for  the  last  time,  to  refer  to  '^X  Ten  Years' 
War"  for  the  full  story  of  that  campaign.    As  I  said,  it  was  great. 

Conceive,  if  you  can,  the  state  of  mind  of  a  man  to  whom  a 
dark,  overcrowded  tenement  had  ever  been  as  a  personal  affront, 
now  suddenly  finding  himself  commissioned  wiih  letters  of  marque 
and  reprisal,  as  it  were,  to  seize  and  destroy  the  enemy  wherever 
found,  not  one  at  a  time,  but  by  blocks  and  battalions  in  the  lay- 
ing out  of  parks.  I  fed  fat  my  ancient  grudge  and  grew  good 
humor  enough  to  last  me  for  a  dozen  years  in  those  two.  They 
were  the  years  when,  in  spite  of  hard  work,  I  began  to  grow  stout, 
and  honestly,  I  think  it  was  tearing  do\^'n  tenements  that  did  it. 
Directly  or  indirectly,  I  had  a  hand  in  destro^dng  seven  whole 
blocks  of  them  as  I  count  it  up.    I  wish  it  had  been  seventy. 

The  landlords  sued,  but  the  courts  sided  with  the  Health 
Board.  When  at  last  we  stopped  to  take  breath  we  had  fairly 
broken  the  back  of  the  sium  and  made  precedents  of  our  own 
that  would  last  a  while.  Mr.  Roosevelt  was  personally  sued 
twice,  I  think,  but  that  was  all  the  good  it  did  them.  We  were 
ha\4ng  our  innings  that  time,  and  there  were  a  lot  of  arrears 
to  collect.  The  city  paid  for  the  property  that  was  taken,  of 
course,  and  more  ihan  it  ought  to  have  paid,  to  my  way  of  think- 
ing. The  law  gave  the  owner  of  a  tenement  that  was  altogether 
unfit  just  the  value  of  the  brick  and  timbers  that  were  in  it.  It 
was  enough,  for  ''unfit"  meant  murderous,  and  why  should  a 
man  have  a  better  right  to  kill  his  neighbor  with  a  house  than 
^\'ith  an  axe  in  the  street?  But  the  la\\yers  who  counselled 
compromise  bought  Gotham  Court,  one  of  the  most  hopeless 
slums  in  the  Fourth  Ward,  for  nearly  820,000.  It  was  not 
worth  so  many  cents.  The  Barracks  with  their  awiul  baby 
death-rate  were  found  to  be  mortgaged  to  a  cemetery  corporation. 
The  Board  of  Healtn  gave  them  the  price  of  opening  one  grave 
Q 


226         THE  MAKING  OF  AN  MIERICAN 


for  their  share,  and  tore  down  the  rear  tenements.  A  year  or 
two  later  I  travelled  to  Europe  on  an  ocean  steamer  with  the 
treasurer  of  that  graveyard  concern.  We  were  ten  days  on  the 
way,  and  I  am  afraid  he  did  not  have  altogether  a  good  time  of  it. 
The  ghost  of  the  Barracks  would  keep  rising  out  of  the  deep 
before  us,  sitting  there  in  our  steamer  chairs,  from  whichever 
quarter  the  wind  blew.  I  suppose  he  took  it  as  a  victory  when 
the  Court  of  Appeals  decided  upon  a  technicality  that  the 
Barracks  should  not  have  been  destroyed ;  but  so  did  I,  for  they 
were  down  by  that  time.  The  cit}^  could  afford  to  pay.  We 
were  paying  for  our  own  neglect,  and  it  was  a  good  lesson. 

I  have  said  more  than  once  in  these  pages  that  I  am  not  good 
at  figuring,  and  I  am  not;  a  child  could  do  better.  For  that 
very  reason  I  am  going  to  claim  full  credit  for  every  time  I  do  a 
sum  right.  It  may  not  happen  again.  Twice  during  that  spell, 
curiously  enough,  did  I  downright  distinguish  myself  in  that 
line.  I  shall  never  be  able  to  tell  you  how ;  I  only  know  that  I 
did  it.  Once  was  when  I  went  before  the  Board  of  Estimate  and 
Apportionment  to  oppose  an  increase  in  the  appropriation  for 
the  Tombs  which  the  Commissioner  of  Correction  ha,d  asked  for. 
His  plea  was  that- there  had  been  a  large  increase  in  the  census  of 
the  prison,  and  he  marched  up  a  column  of  figures  to  prove  it. 
To  the  amazement  of  the  Board,  and  really,  if  the  truth  be  told, 
of  myself,  I  demonstrated  clearly  from  his  own  figures  that  not 
only  had  there  been  no  increase,  but  that  there  could  not  be 
without  criminally  overcrowding  the  wretched  old  prison,  in 
which  already  every  cell  had  two  inmates,  and  some  three.  The 
exhibit  was  so  striking  that  the  Commissioner  and  his  book- 
keeper retired  in  confusion.  It  was  just  the  power  of  the  facts 
again.  I  wanted  to  have  the  horrid  old  pile  torn  down,  and  liad 
been  sitting  up  nights  acquainting  myself  with  all  that  con- 
cerned it.    Now  it  is  gone,  and  a  good  riddance  to  it. 

The  other  computation  w^as  vastly  more  involved. .  It  con- 


ROOSEVELT  CO]\IES 


227 


cerned  the  schools,  about  which  no  one  knew  an^^thing  for 
certain.  The  annual  reports  of  the  Department  of  Education 
were  models  of  how  to  say  a  thing  so  that  no  one  b}^  any  chance 
could  understand  what  it  was  about.  It  was  possible  to  prove 
from  them  that,  while  there  was  notoriously  a  dearth  of  school 
accommodation,  while  children  knocked  vainly  for  admission 
and  the  Superintendent  clamored  for  more  schools,  yet  there 
were  ten  or  twenty  thousand  seats  to  spare.  But  it  was  not 
possible  to  get  the  least  notion  from  them  of  what  the  real  need 
was.  I  tried  for  many  months,  and  then  set  about  finding  out 
for  myself  how  many  children  who  ought  to  be  in  school  were 
drifting  about  the  streets.  The  truant  officers,  professionally 
discreet,  thought  about  800.  The  Superintendent  of  Schools 
guessed  at  8000.  The  officers  of  the  Association  for  the  Im- 
provement of  the  Condition  of  the  Poor,  with  an  eye  on  the 
tenements,  made  it  150,000.  I  canvassed  a  couple  of  wards 
from  the  truant  officers'  reports,  and  Dr.  Tracy  compared  the 
showing  with  the  statistics  of  population.  From  the  result  I 
reasoned  that  there  must  be  about  50,000.  They  scorned  me  at 
the  City  Hall  for  it.  It  was  all  guesswork  they  said,  and  so  it 
was.  We  had  first  to  have  a  school  census,  and  we  got  one,  so 
that  we  might  know  where  we  were  at.  But  when  we  had  the 
result  of  that  fir^t  census  before  us,  behold !  it  showed  that  of 
339,756  children  of  school  age  in  the  city  251,235  were  accounted 
for  on  the  roster  of  pubhc  or  private  schools,  28,452  were  em- 
ployed, and  50'0G9  on  tlie  street  or  at  home.  So  that,  if  I  am 
not  smart  at  figuring,  I  may  reasonably  claim  to  be  a  good 
guesser. 

The  showing  that  a  lack  of  schools  which  threw  an  arm}'  of 
children  upon  the  street  w^nt  hand  in  hand  with  overcrowded 
jails  made  us  get  up  and  demand  that  something  be  done.  From 
the  school  executive  came  the  helpless  suggestion  that  the  thing 
might  be  mended  by  increasing  the  classes  in  neighborhoods 


228         THE  MAKING  OF  AN  AMERICAN 


where  there  were  not  enough  schools  from  sixty  to  seventy-five. 
Forty  or  forty-five  pupils  is  held  to  be  the  safe  limit  anywhere. 
But  the  time  had  passed  for  such  pottering.  New  York  pulled 
itself  together  and  spent  millions  in  building  new  schools  while 
''the  system was  overhauled;  we  dragged  in  a  truant  school 
by  threatening  the  city  authorities  with  the  power  of  the  State 
unless  they  ceased  to  send  truants  to  institutions  that  received 
child  criminals.  But  a  man  convinced  against  his  will  is  of  the 
same  opinion  still ;  we  shall  have  to  do  that  all  over  again  next. 
My  pet  scheme  was  to  have  trained  oculists  attached  to  the 
public  schools,  partly  as  a  means  of  overcoming  stupidity  — 
half  of  what  passes  for  that  in  the  children  is  really  the  teacher^s ; 
the  little  ones  are  near-sighted ;  they  cannot  see  the  blackboard 
—  partly  also  that  they  might  have  an  eye  on  the  school  build- 
ings and  help  us  get  rid  of  some  where  they  had  to  burn  gas  all 
day.  That  was  upset  by  the  doctors,  who  were  afraid  that 
''private  practice  would  be  interfered  with.''  We  had  not  quite 
got  to  the  millennium  yet.  It  was  so  with  our  bill  to  establish  a 
farm  school  to  win  back  young  vagrants  to  a  useful  life.  It  was 
killed  at  Albany  with  the  challenge  that  we  "had  haJ  enough  of 
reform  in  New  York."  And  so  we  had,  as  the  events  showed. 
Tammany  came  back. 

But  not  to  stay.  We  had  secured  a  hold  during  those  three 
years  which  I  think  they  little  know  of.  They  talk  at  the  Wig- 
wam of  the  "school  vote,''  and  mean  the  men  friends  and  kin  of 
the  teachers  on  whom  the  machine  has  a  grip,  or  thinks  it  has ; 
but  there  is  another  school  vote  that  is  yet  to  be  heard  from, 
when  the  generation  that  has  had  its  right  to  play  restored  to  it 
comes  to  the  polls.  That  was  the  great  gain  of  that  time.  It 
was  the  thing  I  had  in  mind  back  of  and  beyond  all  the  rest. 
I  was  bound  to  kill  the  Bend,  because  it  was  bad.  I  wanted  the 
sunlight  in  there,  but  so  that  it  might  shine  on  the  children  at 
play.    That  is  a  child's  right,  and  it  is  not  to  be  cheated  of  it. 


ROOSEVELT  C0:MES 


229 


And  when  it  is  cheated  of  it,  it  is  not  the  child  but  the  com- 
munity  that  is  robbed  of  that  beside  which  all  its  wealth  is  but 
tinsel  and  trash.  For  men,  not  mone}^,  make  a  country  great, 
and  joyless  children  do  not  make  good  men. 

So  when  the  Legislature,  urged  by  the  Tenement  House  Com- 
mission, made  it  law  that  no  public  school  should  ever  agam  be 
built  in  New  York  without  an  outdoor  playground,  it  touched 
the  quick.  Thereafter  it  was  easy  to  rescue  the  small  parks 
from  the  landscape  gardener  by  laying  them  under  the  same 
rule.  It  was  well  we  did  it,  too,  for  he  is  a  dangerous  customer, 
hard  to  get  around.  T^snce  he  has  tried  to  steal  one  of  the  little 
parks  we  laid  out,  the  one  that  is  called  Seward  Park,  from  the 
children,  and  he  points  with  pride"  almost  to  the  playground 
in  the  other,  which  he  laid  out  so  badly  that  it  was  a  failure  from 
the  start.  However,  we  shall  convert  him  yet;  everything  in 
its  season. 

The  Board  of  Education  puzzled  over  its  end  of  it  for  a  while. 
The  law  did  not  say  huw  big  the  playground  should  be,  and 
there  was  no  precedent.  Xo,  there  was  not.  I  found  the  key 
to  that  puzzle,  at  least  one  that  fitted,  when  I  was  Secretary  of 
the  Small  Parks  Committee.  It  was  my  last  act  as  agent  of  the 
Good  Government  clubs  to  persuade  Mayor  Strong  to  appoint 
that  committee.  It  made  short  work  of  its  task.  We  sent  for 
the  pohce  to  tell  us  where  they  had  trouble  with  the  boys,  and 
why.  It  was  always  the  same  story :  they  had  no  other  place  to 
play  in  than  the  street,  and  there  they  broke  windows.  So 
began  the  trouble.  It  ended  in  the  police-station  and  the  jail. 
The  cit}"  was  building  new  schools  by  the  score.  We  got  a  list 
of  the  sites,  and  as  we  expected,  they  were  where  the  trouble  was 
worst.  Naturally  so;  that  was  where  the  children  were. 
There,  then,  was  our  field  as  a  playground  committee.  W^y 
not  kill  two  birds  ^vnth  one  stone,  and  save  mone}^  by  making 
them  one?    By  hitching  the  school  and  the  boys'  play  together 


230 


THE  MAKING  OF  AN  AMERICAN 


we  should  speedily  get  rid  of  the  truant.  He  was  just  there  as 
a  protest  against  the  school  without  play. 

We  asked  the  Board  of  Education  to  make  their  school  play- 
grounds the  neighborhood  recreation  centres.  So  they  would 
not  need  to  worry  over  how  big  they  should  be,  but  just  make 
them  as  big  as  they  could,  whether  on  the  roof  or  on  the  ground. 
They  listened,  but  found  difficulties  in  ''the  property.^*  Odd, 
isn't  it,  this  disposition  of  the  world  to  forever  make  of  the  means 
the  end,  to  glorify  the  estabhshment !  It  was  the  same  story 
when  I  asked  them  to  open  the  schools  at  night  and  let  in  the 
boys  to  have  their  clubs  there.  The  saloon  was  bidding  for 
them,  and  bidding  high,  but  the  School  Board  hesitated  because 
a  window  might  be  broken  or  a  janitor  want  extra  pay  for  clean- 
ing up.  Before  a  reluctant  consent  was  given  I  had  to  make  a 
kind  of  promise  that  I  would  not  appear  before  the  Board  again 
to  argue  for  throwing  the  doors  wider  still.  But  it  isn't  going 
to  keep  me  from  putting  in  the  heaviest  licks  I  can,  in  the  cam- 
paign that  is  coming,  for  turning  the  schools  over  to  the  people 
bodily,  and  making  of  them  the  neighborhood  centre  in  all 
things  that  make  for  good,  including  trades-union  meetings  and 
political  discussions.  Only  so  shall  we  make  of  our  schools  real 
corner-stones  of  our  liberties.  So,  also,  we  shall  through  neigh- 
borhood pride  restore  some  of  the  neighborhood  feeling,  the 
hoyne  feeling  that  is  now  lacking  in  our  cities  to  our  grievous  loss. 
Half  the  tenement-house  population  is  always  moving,  and  to 
the  children  the  word  ''home"  has  no  meaning.  Anything 
that  will  help  change  that  will  be  a  great  gain.  And  that  old 
Board  is  gone  long  since,  anyhow. 

The  club  prevailed  in  the  end.  At  least  one  school  let  it  in, 
and  though  the  boys  did  break  a  window-pane  that  winter  with 
a  ball,  they  paid  for  it  like  men,  and  that  ghost  was  laid.  The 
school  playground  holds  aloof  yet  from  the  neighborhood  except 
in  the  loag  vacation.    But  that  last  is  something,  and  the  rest 


ROOSEVELT  CO:\IES 


231 


is  coming.  It  could  not  be  coming  by  any  better  road  than  the 
vacation  schools,  which  are  paving  the  way  for  common  sense 
everywhere.  ^'Everything  takes  ten  years/'  said  Abram  S. 
Hewitt,  when  he  took  his  seat  as  the  chairman  of  the  Small 
Parks  Committee.  Ten  j^ears  before,  when  he  was  Mayor,  he 
had  put  through  the  law  under  which  the  Mulberry  Bend  had 
been -at  last  wiped  out.  We  held  our  meetings  at  the  City  Hall, 
where  I  had  been  spurned  so  often.  All  things  come  to  those 
who  wait  —  and  fight  for  them.  Yes,  fight !  I  say  it  advisedly. 
I  have  come  to  the  time  of  life  when  a  man  does  not  lay  about 
him  vdth.  a  club  unless  he  has  to.  But  —  eternal  vigilance  is 
the  price  of  liberty  !  To  be  vigilant  is  to  sit  up  with  a  club.  We, 
as  a  people,  have  provided  in  the  republic  a  means  of  fighting 
for  our  rights  and  getting  them,  and  it  is  our  business  to  do  it. 
We  shall  never  get  them  in  any  other  way.  Colonel  Waring  was 
a  wise  man  as  well  as  a  great  man.  His  declaration  that  he 
cleaned  the  streets  of  Xew  York,  all  prophecies  to  the  contrary 
notwithstanding,  by  ''prtting  a  man  instead  of  a  voter  behind 
every  broom,''  deserves  to  be  put  on  the  monum.ent  we  shall 
build  by  and  by  to  that  courageous  m.an,  for  it  is  the  whole  gospel 
of  municipal  righteousness  in  a  nutshell.  But  he  never  said 
anything  better  than  when  he  ad\dsed  his  fellow-citizens  to 
fight,  not  to  plead,  for  their  rights.  So  we  grow  the  kind  of 
citizenship  that  sets  the  world,  or  anyhow  our  day,  ahead.  We 
will  all  hail  the  day  when  we  shall  be  able  to  lay  down  the  club. 
But  until  it  comes  I  do  not  see  that  we  have  any  choice  but  to 
keep  a  firm  grip  on  it. 


CHAPTER  XIV 


I  Try  to  Go  to  the  War  for  the  Third  and  Last  Time 

That  which  I  have  described  as  ^'sitting  up  with  a  club''  in 
a  city  like  New  York  is  bound  to  win  your  fight  if  you  sit  up 
long  enough,  for  it  is  to  be  remembered  that  the  politicians 
who  oppose  good  government  are  not  primarily  concerned  about 
keeping  you  out  of  your  rights.  They  want  the  things  that 
make  for  their  advantage ;  first  of  all  the  offices  through  which 
they  can  maintain  their  grip.  After  that  they  will  concede  as 
many  of  the  things  you  want  as  they  have  to,  and  if  you  are  not 
yourself  out  for  the  offices,  more  than  otherwise,  though  never 
more  than  you  wring  out  of  them.  They  really  do  not  care 
if  you  do  have  clean  streets,  good  schools,  parks,  playgrounds, 
and  all  the  things  which  make  for  good  citizenship  because  they 
give  the  best  part  of  the  man  a  chance,  though  they  grudge 
them  as  a  sad  waste  of  money  that  might  be  turned  to  use  in 
^^strengthening  the  organization,''  which  is  the  sum  of  all  their 
self-seeking,  being  their  means  of  ever  getting  more  and  more. 
Hence  it  is  that  a  mere  handful  of  men  and  women  who  rarely 
or  never  had  other  authority  than  their  own  unselfish  purpose, 
have  in  all  times,  even  the  worst,  been  able  to  put  their  stamp 
upon  the  community  for  good.  I  am  thinking  of  the  Fehx 
Adlers,  the  Dr.  Rainsfords,  the  Josephine  Shaw  Lowells,  the 
Robert  Ross  McBurneys,  the  R.  Fulton  Cuttings,  the  Father 

232 


WAR  FOR  THE  LAST  TBIE 


233 


Doyles,  the  Jacob  H.  Schiffs,  the  Robert  W.  de  Forests,  the 
Arthur  von  Briesens,  the  F.  Norton  Gocldards,  the  Richard 
Watson  Gilders,  and  their  kind ;  and  thinking  of  them  brings 
to  mind  an  opportunity  I  had  a  year  or  two  ago  to  tell  a  club 
of  workmen  what  I  thought  of  them.  It  was  at  the  Chicago 
Commons.  I  had  looked  in  on  a  Sunday  evening  upon  a  group 
of  men  engaged  in  what  seemed  to  me  a  singularly  unprofitable 
discussion  of  human  motives.  They  were  of  the  school  which 
professes  to  believe  that  everything  proceeds  from  the  love  of 
self,  and  they  spoke  learnedly  of  the  ego  and  all  that ;  but  as  I 
likened  the  conviction  grew,  along  with  the  feeling  of  exaspera- 
tion that  sort  of  nonsense  always  arouses  in  me,  that  they  were 
just  vaporing,  and  I  told  them  so.  I  pointed  to  these  men  and 
women  I  have  spoken  of,  some  of  them  of  great  wealth  —  the 
thing  against  which  they  seemed  to  have  a  special  grudge  — 
and  told  them  how  they  had  given  their  lives  and  their  means 
in  the  cause  of  humanity  without  asking  other  reward  than  that 
of  seeing  the  world  grov;  better,  and  the  hard  lot  of  some  of 
their  fellow-men  eased ;  wherein  they  had  succeeded  because 
they  thought  less  of  themselves  than  of  their  neighbors,  and 
were  in  the  field,  anyway,  to  be  of  such  use  as  they  could.  I 
told  them  how  distressed  I  was  that  upon  their  own  admission 
they  should  havf^  been  engaged  in  this  discussion  four  years 
without  getting  any  farther,  and  I  closed  with  a  remorseful 
feeling  of  having  said  more  than  I  intended  and  perhaps  having 
made  them  feel  bad.  But  not  they.  They  had  listened  to  me 
throughout  with  undisturbed  serenity.  When  I  had  done, 
the  chairman  said  courteously  that  they  were  greatly  indebted 
to  me  for  my  frank  opinion.  Every  man  was  entitled  to  his  own. 
And  he  could  quite  sympathize  with  me  in  my  inability  to  catch 
their  point  of  view. 

Because  here,'^  he  added,  ^'I  have  been  reading  for  ten 
years  or  more  the  things  Mr.  Riis  writes  in  his  newspaper  and 


234 


THE  MAKING  OF  AN  AMERICAN 


in  the  magazines,  and  by  which  he  makes  a  living,  and  for  the 
life  of  me  I  never  was  able  to  understand  how  any  one  could  be 
found  to  pay  for  such  stuff. 

So  there  you  have  my  measure  as  a  reformer.  The  meeting 
nodded  gravely.  I  was  apparently  the  only  one  there  who  took 
it  as  a  joke. 

I  spoke  of  the  women's  share  in  the  progress  we  made.  A 
good  big  one  it  was.  We  should  have  been  floundering  yet  in 
the  educational  mud-puddle  we  were  in,  had  it  not  been  for  the 
women  of  New  York  who  went  to  Albany  and  hterally  held 
up  the  Legislature,  compelling  it  to  pass  our  reform  bill.  And 
not  once  but  a  dozen  times,  during  Mayor  Strong's  administra- 
tion, when  they  had  wearied  of  me  at  the  City  Hall  —  I  was  not 
always  persona  grata  there  wdth  the  reform  administration  — 
did  I  find  it  the  part  of  wisdom  to  send  committees  of  women 
instead  to  plead  with  the  Mayor  over  his  five  o'clock  tea.  They 
could  worm  a  playground  or  a  small  park  out  of  him  when  I  should 
have  met  with  a  curt  refusal  and  a  virtual  invitation  to  be  gone. 
In  his  political  doldrums  the  Mayor  did  not  have  a  kindly  eye 
to  reformers ;  but  he  was  not  always  able  to  make  +hem  out  in 
petticoats. 

The  women  prevailed  at  Albany  by  the  power  of  fact.  They 
knew,  and  the  legislators  did  not.  They  received  them  up 
there  with  an  indulgent  smile,  but  it  became  speedily  apparent 
that  they  came  bristling  with  infomiation  about  the  schools  to 
which  the  empty  old  Tammany  boast  that  New  York  ^^had 
the  be^t  schools  in  the  world"  was  not  an  effective  answer.  In 
fact  they  came  nearer  being  the  worst.  I  had  myself  had  an 
experience  of  that  kind,  when  I  pointed  out  in  print  that  an 
East  Side  school  was  so  overrun  with  rats  that  it  was  difficult 
to  hear  oneself  think  for  their  squeaking  in  the  dark  '^play- 
ground," when  the  children  were  upstairs  in  their  classes.  The 
Board  o|  Estimate  and  Apportionment,  which  comprises  the 


WAR  FOR  THE  LAST  TIME 


235 


important  officials  of  the  city  Government  with  the  Mayor  as 
presiding  officer,  took  umbrage  at  the  statement,  and  said  in 
plain  words  that  I  Hed  and  that  there  were  no  rats.  That  was 
a  piece  of  unthinking  ignorance,  for  an  old  schoolhouse  without 
rats  in  it  would  be  a  rare  thing  anywhere ;  but  it  was  imperti- 
nence, too,  of  a  kind  of  which  I  had  had  so  much  from  the  City 
Hall  that  I  decided  the  time  had  come  for  a  demonstration. 
I  got  me  a  rat  trap,  and  prepared  to  catch  one  and  have  it  sent 
in  to  the  Board,  duly  authenticated  by  affidavit  as  hailing  from 
Allen  Street ;  but  before  I  could  carry  out  my  purpose  the 
bottom  fell  out  of  the  Tammany  conspiracy  of  ignorance  and 
fraud  and  left  us  the  way  clear  for  three  3^ears.  So  I  saved  my 
rat  for  another  time. 

This  ^'fact,''  which  was  naturally  m}^  own  weapon,  the  con- 
tribution I  was  able  to  make  from  my  own  profession  and  train- 
ing, was  in  reality  a  tremendously  effective  club  before  which 
nothing  could  or  can  stand  in  the  long  run.  If  I  can  leave  that 
conviction  as  a  legacy  to  my  brother  reporters,  I  shall  feel  that 
1  have  really  performed  a  ser\dce.  I  believe  they  do  not  half 
understand  it,  or  they  would  waste  no  printer\s  ink  idly.  The 
school  war  was  an  illustration  of  it,  all  through.  I  was  at 
Police  Headquarters,  where  I  saw  the  East  Side,  that  had  been 
orderly,  becoming  thievish  and  immoral.  Going  to  the  schools, 
I  found  them  overcrowded,  ill  ventilated,  dark,  without  play- 
grounds, repellent.  Followdng  up  the  boys,  who  escaped  from 
them  in  disgust  —  if  indeed  they  were  not  barred  out ;  the 
street  swarmed  \vith  children  for  whom  there  was  not  room  — 
I  saw  them  herded  at  the  prison  to  which  Protestant  truants 
were  sent,  with  burglars,  vagrants,  thieves,  and  ^'bad  boys" 
of  every  kind.  They  classified  them  according  to  size:  four 
feet,  four  feet  seven,  and  over  four  feet  seven !  No  other  way 
was  attempted.  At  the  Catholic  prison  they  did  not  even  do 
that.    They  kept  them  on  a    footing  of  social  equality by 


236 


THE  MAKING  OF  AN  AMERICAN 


mixing  them  all  up  together ;  and  when  in  amazement  I  asked 
if  that  was  doing  right  by  the  truant  who  might  be  reasonably 
supposed  to  be  in  special  danger  from  such  contact,  the  answer 
I  got  was  would  it  be  fair  to  the  burglar  to  set  him  apart  with 
the  stamp  on  him?''  I  went  back  to  the  office  and  took  from 
the  Rogues'  Gallery  a  handful  of  photographs  of  boy  thieves 
and  murderers  and  printed  them  in  the  Century  Magazine  with 
a  statement  of  the  facts,  under  the  heading,  ^^The  Making  of 
Thieves  in  New  York."  I  quote  the  concluding  sentence  of 
that  article  because  it  seemed  to  me  then,  and  it  seems  to  me 
now,  that  there  was  no  getting  away  from  its  awful  arraign- 
ment :  — 

While  we  are  asking  at  this  end  of  the  line  if  it  would  be 
quite  fair  to  the  burglar  to  shut  him  off  from  social  intercourse 
with  his  betters,  the  State  Reformatory,  where  the  final  product 
of  our  schools  of  crime  is  garnered,  suppH^s  the  answer  year 
after  year,  unheeded.  Of  the  thousands  who  land  there,  barely 
one  per  cent  kept  good  company  before  coming.  All  the  rest 
were  the  victims  of  evil  association,  of  corrupt  environment. 
They  were  not  thieves  by  heredity;  they  were  made.  And 
the  manufacture  goes  on  every  day.  The  street  and  the  jail 
are  the  factories." 

Upon  the  lay  mind  the  argument  took  hold ;  that  of  the  official 
educator  resisted  it  stubbornly  for  a  season.  Two  years  later 
when  one  of  the  School  Commissioners  spoke  indulgently  of  the 
burglars  and  highway  robbers  in  the  two  prisons  as  probably 
guilty  merely  of  'Hhe  theft  of  a  top,  or  a  marble,  or  maybe  a 
banana,"  in  extenuation  of  the  continued  policy  of  his  depart- 
ment in  sending  truants  there  in  flat  defiance  of  the  State  law 
that  forbade  the  mingling  of  thieves  and  truants,  the  pofice 
office  had  once  more  to  be  invoked  with  its  testimony.  I  had 
been  keeping  records  of  the  child  crimes  that  came  up  in  the 
course  of  my  work  that  year.    They  began  before  the  kinder- 


WAR  FOR  THE  LAST  TIME 


237 


garten  age  with  burglary  and  fill-tapping.  "  Highwaymen 
at  six  sounds  rather  formidable,  but  there  was  no  other  name 
for  it.  Two  lads  of  that  age  had  held  up  a  third  and  robbed 
him  in  the  street;  at  seven  and  eight  there  were  seven  house- 
breakers and  two  common  thieves ;  at  ten  I  had  a  burglar,  one 
boy  and  four  girl  thieves,  two  charged  with  assault  and  one  with 
forgery;  at  eleven  four  burglars,  two  thieves  with  a  record, 
two  charged  with  assault,  a  highway  robber,  an  habitual  liar, 
and  a  suicide;  at  twelve  five  burglars,  three  thieves,  two 
^Mrunks,''  three  incendiaries,  three  arrested  for  assault,  and 
two  suicides;  at  thirteen  five  burglars,  one  with  a  record,  five 
thieves,  five  charged  with  assault,  one  'Mrunk,''  one  forger; 
at  fourteen  four  burglars,  seven  thieves,  one  drunk  enough  to 
fight  a  pohceman,  six  highway  robbers,  and  ten  charged  with 
assault.  And  so  on.  The  street  had  borne  its  perfect  crop, 
and  they  were  behind  the  bars  every  one,  locked  in  with  the  boys 
who  had  done  nothing  worse  than  play  hooky. 

It  was  a  knock-out  blow.  Classification  by  measurement 
had  ceased  at  the  first  broadside;  the  last  gave  us  the  truant 
school  which  the  law  demanded.  To  make  the  most  of  it,  we 
shall  apparently  have  to  have  a  new  deal.  I  tried  to  persuade 
the  Children's  Aid  Society  to  turn  its  old  machinery  to  this  new 
work.  Perhaps  ijie  George  Junior  Republic  would  do  better 
still.  Wlien  there  is  room  for  every  boy  on  the  school  bench, 
and  room  to  toss  a  ball  when  he  is  off  it,  there  will  not  be  much 
left  of  that  problem  to  wrestle  with;  but  httle  or  much,  the 
peril  of  the  prison  is  too  great  to  be  endured  for  a  moment. 

It  must  have  been  about  that  time  that  I  received  a  letter 
from  an  old  friend  who  was  in  high  glee  over  a  statement  in  some 
magazine  that  I  had  evolved  a  ''scientific  theory"  as  to  why 
boys  go  to  the  bad  in  cities.  It  was  plain  that  he  was  as  much 
surprised  as  he  was  pleased,  and  so  was  I  when  I  heard  wlmt  it 
7/as  all  about.    That  which  they  had  pitched  upon  as  science 


238 


THE  MAKING  OF  AN  AMERICAN 


and  theory  was  the  baldest  recital  of  the  facts  as  seen  from 
Mulberry  Street.  Beyond  putting  two  and  two  together,  there 
was  very  little  reasoning  about  it.  That  such  conditions  as 
were  all  about  us  should  result  in  making  ''toughs"  of  the  boys 
was  not  strange.  Rather,  it  would  have  been  strange  had  any- 
thing else  come  of  it.  With  the  home  corrupted  by  the  tene- 
ment ;  the  school  doors  closed  against  them  where  the  swarms 
were  densest,  and  the  children  thrown  upon  the  street,  there 
to  take  their  chance;  with  honest  play  interdicted,  every 
natural  right  of  the  child  turned  into  a  means  of  oppression,  a 
game  of  ball  become  a  crime  for  which  children  were  thrust 
into  jail,  indeed,  shot  down  like  dangerous  criminals  when 
running  away  from  the  policeman  who  pursued  them ;  ^  with 
dead-letter  laws  on  every  hand  breeding  blackmail  and  bringing 
the  police  and  authority  into  disrepute;  with  the  lawlessness 
of  the  street  added  to  want  of  rule  at  home,  where  the  immigrant 
father  looked  on  helpless,  himself  dependent  in  the  strange 
surroundings  upon  the  boy  and  no  longer  his  master  —  it 
seemed  as  if  we  had  set  out  to  dehberately  make  the  trouble  under 
which  we  groaned.  And  we  were  not  alone  in  it.  The  shoe  fits 
every  large  city  more  or  less  snugly.  I  know,  for  I  have  had  a 
good  deal  to  do  with  fitting  it  on  the  last  two  or  three  years; 
and  often,  when  looking  my  audience  over  in  lecturing  about 
Tony  and  his  hardships,  I  am  thinking  about  Mulberry  Street 
and  the  old  days  when  problems,  civic  or  otherwise,  were 
farthest  from  my  mind  in  digging  out  the  facts  that  lay  ready 
to  the  hand  of  the  police  reporter. 

In  him  as  a  reporter  there  may  be  no  special  virtue ;  but  there 
is  that  in  his  work,  in  the  haste  and  the  directness  of  it,  which 
compels  him  always  to  take  the  short  cut  and  keeps  it  clear  of 
crankery  of  every  kind.    The  ''isms"  have  no  place  in  a  news- 

1  Such  a  case  occurred  on  Thanksgiving  Day,  1897.  A  great  public 
clamor  arose  and  the  policeman  was  sent  to  Sing  Sing. 


WAR  FOR  THE  LAST  THIE  239 


paper  office,  certainly  not  in  ^Mulberry  Street.  I  confess  I  was 
rather  glad  of  it.  I  had  no  stomach  for  abstract  discussions  of 
social  wTongs ;  I  wanted  to  right  those  of  them  that  I  could  reach, 
i  wanted  to  tear  down  the  Mulberry  Bend  and  let  in  the  light 
so  that  we  might  the  more  readily  make  them  out ;  the  others 
could  do  the  rest  then.  I  used  to  say  that  to  a  very  destructive 
crank  who  would  have  nothing  less,  upon  any  account,  than  the 
whole  loaf.  My  remedies'^  were  an  abomination  to  him. 
The  landlords  should  be  boiled  in  oil  to  a  man;  hanging  was 
too  good  for  them.  Xow  he  is  a  Tammany  officeholder  in  a 
position  where  propping  up  landlord  greed  is  his  daily  practice 
and  pri\dlege,  and  he  thrives  upon  it.  But  I  ought  not  to 
blame  him.  It  is  precisely  because  of  his  kind  that  Tammany 
is  defenceless  against  real  reform.  It  never  can  make  it  out. 
That  every  man  has  his  price  is  the  language  of  Fourteenth 
Street.  They  have  no  dictionary  there  to  enable  them  to  under- 
stand any  other ;  and  as  a  short  cut  out  of  it  they  deny  that 
there  is  any  other. 

It  helped  me  vastly  that  my  associations  in  the.  office  were 
most  congenial.  I  have  not  often  been  in  accord  with  the  edi- 
torial page  of  my  own  paper,  the  Sun.  It  seemed  as  if  it  were 
impossible  for  an^^body  to  get  farther  apart  in  their  views  of 
most  things  on  th*-  earth  and  off  it  than  were  my  paper  and  I. 
It  hated  and  persecuted  Beecher  and  Cleveland ;  they  were  my 
heroes.  It  converted  me  to  Grant  by  its  opposition  to  him. 
The  sign  '^Keep  off  the  grass  arouses  in  its  editorial  breast 
no  desire  to  lock  up  the  man  who  planted  it  ;  it  does  in  mine. 
Ten  years  and  more  I  have  striven  in  its  columns  to  make  the 
tenement  out  a  chief  device  of  the  devil,  and  it  must  be  that  I 
have  brought  some  over  to  my  belief ;  but  I  have  not  converted 
the  Su7i.  So  that  on  the  principle  which  I  laid  down  before  that 
I  must  be  always  fighting  with  my  friends,  I  ought  to  have  Lad 
a  mighty  good  time  of  it  there.    And  so  in  fact  I  did.    They  let 


240         THE  MAKING  OF  AN  AMERICAN 


me  have  in  pretty  nearly  everything  my  own  way,  though  it  led 
us  so  far  apart.  As  time  passed  and  the  duties  that  came  to 
me  took  more  and  more  of  my  time  from  my  office  work,  I  found 
that  end  of  it  insensibly  lightened  to  allow  me  to  pursue  the 
things  I  believed  in,  though  they  did  not.  No  doubt  the  old 
friendship  that  existed  between  my  immediate  chief  on  the 
Evening  Sun,  William  McCloy,  and  myself,  bore  a  hand  in  this. 
Yet  it  could  not  have  gone  on  without  the  assent  and  virtual 
sympathy  of  the  Danas,  father  and  son ;  for  we  came  now  and 
then  to  a  point  where  opposite  views  clashed  and  proved  irrec- 
oncilable. Then  I  found  these  men,  whom  some  deemed  cynical, 
most  ready  to  see  the  facts  as  they  were,  and  to  see  justice  done. 

I  like  to  think  of  my  last  meeting  with  Charles  A.  Dana,  the 
*'01d  Chief,"  as  he  was  always  called  in  the  office.  In  all  the 
years  I  was  on  the  Sun  I  do  not  think  I  had  spoken  with  him  a 
half  dozen  times.  When  he  wanted  anything  of  me  personally, 
his  orders  were  very  brief  and  to  the  point.  It  was  generally 
something  —  a  report  to  be  digested  or  the  story  of  some  social 
experiment  —  which  showed  me  that  in  his  heart  he  was  faithful 
to  his  early  love ;  he  had  been  in  his  youth,  as  everybody  knows, 
an  enthusiastic  reformer,  a  member  of  the  Brook  Farm  Commu- 
nity. But  if  he  thought  I  saw,  he  let  no  sign  escape  him.  He 
hated  shams ;  perhaps  I  was  on  trial  all  the  time.  If  so,  I  beheve 
that  he  meant  to  tell  me  in  that  last  hand-shake  that  he  had  not 
found  me  wanting.  It  was  on  the  stairs  in  the  Su7i  office  that 
we  met.  I  was  going  up ;  he  was  coming  down  —  going  home 
to  dit.  He  knew  it.  In  me  there  was  no  suspicion  of  the  truth 
when  I  came  upon  him  at  the  turn  of  the  stairs,  stumbhng  along 
in  a  way  very  unhke  the  usual  springy  step  of  the  Old  Chief. 
I  hardly  knew  him  when  he  passed,  but  as  he  turned  and  held 
out  his  hand  I  saw  that  it  was  Mr.  Dana,  looking  somewhat 
older  than  I  had  ever  seen  him,  and  changed.  I  took  off  my 
hat  and  we  shook  hands. 


WAR  FOR  THE  LAST  TIME 


241 


^^Well,"  he  said,  'Miave  you  reformed  everything  to  suit  you, 
straightened  out  every  kink  in  town?  '^ 

^'Pretty  nearly/^  I  said,  falHng  into  his  tone  of  banter;  ^^all 
except  the  Sun  office.    That  is  left  yet,  and  as  bad  as  ever/^ 

^^Ha!"  he  laughed,  ^^you  come  on!  We  are  ready  for  you. 
Come  right  along  And  with  another  hearty  hand-shake  he 
was  gone.    He  never  saw  the  Sun  office  again. 

It  was  the  only  time  he  had  ever  held  out  his  hand  to  me, 
after  that  first  meeting  of  ours  when  I  was  a  lonely  lad,  nearly 
thirty  years  before.  That  time  there  was  a  dollar  in  it  and  I 
spurned  it.  This  time  I  like  to  believe  his  heart  was  in  it.  And 
I  took  it  gladly  and  gratefull3^ 

The  police  helped  —  sometimes.  More  frequently  we  were 
at  odds,  and  few  enough  in  the  rank  and  file  understood  that 
I  was  fighting  for  them  in  fighting  the  department.  A  friend 
came  into  my  office,  laughing,  one  day,  and  told  me  that  he  had 
just  overheard  the  doorman  at  Police  Headquarters  say,  as  he 
saw  me  pass :  — 

^^Ugh !  the  hypocrite !  See  him  take  off  his  hat  and  then  lay 
us  out  cold  in  his  paper  when  he  gets  the  chance.'^ 

He  referred  to  my  old  country  habit  of  raising  the  hat  in  salu- 
tation instead  of  merely  nodding  or  touching  the  brim.  No 
doubt  he  expresset*  a  feefing  that  was  quite  general  at  the  time. 
But  after  Mulberry  Street  had  taken  notice  of  Roosevelt's 
friendship  for  me  there  was  a  change,  and  then  it  went  to  the 
other  extreme.  It  never  quite  got  over  the  fact  that  he  did  not 
^'ring  me  in''  on  President  McKinley  and  the  Government,  or 
at  least  make  me  his  private  secretary  and  deputy  boss  of  the 
Empire  State  while  he  was  Governor.  The  Mulberry  Street 
idea  of  friendship  includes  the  loaves  and  fishes  first  and  last, 
and  ''pull"  is  the  Joss  it  worships.  In  fact  I  had  several  times 
to  explain  that  ]^Jr.  Roosevelt  had  not  ''gone  back  on  me''  to 
save  his  political  reputation.    When  at  a  public  meeting  he 

R 


242         THE  MAKING  OF  AN  AMERICAN 


once  spoke  of  me  as  his  friend,  a  dozen  policemen  brought  me 
copies  of  the  paper  containing  '^ihe  notice,"  with  a  frankly 
expressed  wish  to  be  remembered  when  I  came  into  my  own. 
About  that  time,  being  in  the  neighborhood,  I  strayed  into  the 
Bend  one  day  to  enjoy  the  sunlight  there  and  the  children 
sporting  in  it.  At  the  curb  stood  a  big  policeman  leisurely 
peeling  an  orange,  to  which  he  had  helped  himself  from  a  cring- 
ing Italian's  cart.  I  asked  him  how  were  things  in  the  Bend 
since  the  park  had  come.  He  eyed  me  very  coldly,  and  said, 
^'Bad,  very  bad.''  At  that  I  expressed  my  astonishment,  saying 
that  I  was  a  reporter  at  Police  Headquarters  and  had  understood 
differently. 

^'What  paper?"  he  grunted  insolently.  I  told  him.  He 
bestowed  a  look  of  mingled  pity  and  contempt  upon  me. 

'^Nix!  mine  friend,"  he  said,  spreading  his  feet  farther  apart 
and  tossing  the  peel  at  the  Italian,  who  grinned  with  delight  at 
such  condescension.  I  regarded  him  expectantly.  He  was  a 
very  aggravating  chap. 

''Did  you  say  you  were  at  Police  Headquarters  —  for  the 
Sun.^"  he  observed  at  length. 

''Yes  !"    He  shook  his  head. 

"Nixie!  not  guilty!"  he  said  tauntingly. 

"Why,  what  do  you  mean?" 

"Haven't  you  heard  of  Mr.  Riis,  Jacob  Riis?*' 

I  said  I  had. 

"The  Governor's  friend?" 
"Yes;  what  of  it?" 

"Well,  ain't  he  at  Headquarters  for  the  iSwnf  " 

I  said  that  was  so. 

"Well?" 

I  took  out  my  card  and  handed  it  to  him.  "I  am  that  man," 
I  said. 

For  a  fraction  of  a  second  the  pohceman's  jaw  dropped ;  but 


WAR  FOR  THE  LAST  TIME 


243 


he  was  a  thoroughbred.  His  heels  came  together  before,  as  it 
seemed,  he  could  have  read  my  name ;  he  straightened  up. 
The  half- peeled  orange  fell  from  his  hand  and  rolled  into  the 
gutter,  covertly  speeded  by  a  dextrous  little  kick.  The  unhappy 
Italian,  beheving  it  a  mishap,  made  haste  to  select  the  biggest  and 
juiciest  fruit  on  his  stand,  and  held  it  out  with  a  propitiatory 
bow,  but  he  spumed  him  haughtily  away. 

''These  dagoes,"  he  said,  elaborately  placing  my  card  in  the 
sweat-band  of  his  hat,  ''ain^t  got  no  manners.  It's  a  hard 
place  for  a  good  man  do\vn  here.  It's  time  I  was  a  roundsman. 
You  can  do  it.    You've  got  de  'pull.'" 

When  Roosevelt  had  gone  to  Washington  to  help  fit  out  the 
nsi\y  for  the  war  with  Spain,  I  spent  a  part  of  the  winter  there 
\\dth  him,  and  Mulberry  Street  took  it  for  granted  that  I  had 
at  last  been  "placed"  as  I  should  have  been  long  before.  There 
was  great  amazement  when  I  came  back  to  take  my  old  place. 
The  truth  was  that  I  had  gone  parth^  to  observe  what  went  on 
at  the  capital  for  my  paper,  and  partly  to  speed  on  the  war,  in 
which  I  was  a  hearty  believer  from  the  first.  It  was  to  me  a 
means,  first  and  last,  of  ending  the  murder  in  Cuba.  One  of  the 
very  earliest  things  I  had  to  do  with  as  a  reporter  was  the 
Virginius  massacre,  and  ever  since  it  had  been  bloodshed  right 
along.  It  was  tim^-'  to  stop  it,  and  the  only  way  seemed  to  wrest 
the  grip  of  Spain  from  the  throat  of  the  island.  I  think  I  never 
quite  got  over  the  contempt  I  conceived  for  Spain  and  Spanish 
ways  when  I  read  as  a  boy,  in  Hans  Christian  Andersen's  ac- 
count of  his  travels  in  the  countr}^  of  the  Dons,  that  the  shepherds 
brought  butter  from  the  mountains  in  sheep's  intestines  and 
measured  them  off  in  lengths  demanded  by  the  customers  b}- 
tying  knots  upon  them.  Wliat  was  to  be  expected  from  a  coun- 
try that  sold  butter  by  the  yard?  As  the  event  showed,  it  ran 
its  navies  after  the  same  fashion  and  was  justly  punished.  I 
made  friends  that  winter  with  Dr.  Leonard  Wood,  whom  we 


244 


THE  MAKING  OF  AX  AMERICAN 


all  came  to  know  and  admire  afterwards  as  General  and  Governor 
Wood;  and  a  fine  fellow  he  was.  He  was  Roosevelt^s  friend 
and  physician,  and  we  spent  many  strenuous  hours  together, 
being  in  that  mood. 

For  the  third  time  in  my  life,  and  the  last,  I  wanted  to  go  to 
the  war,  when  they  went,  and  oh !  so  badly.  Not  to  fight,  — 
I  had  had  all  I  needed  of  that  at  home,  —  but  to  tell  the  truth 
about  what  was  going  on  in  Cuba.  The  Outlook  offered  me  that 
post,  and  the  Sun  agreed  heartily ;  but  once  more  the  door  was 
barred  against  me.  Two  of  my  children  had  scarlet  fever,  my 
oldest  son  had  gone  to  Washington  trying  to  enlist  with  the 
Rough  Riders,  and  the  one  next  in  line  was  engineering  to  get 
into  the  navy  on  his  own  hook.  My  wife  raised  no  objection  to 
my  going,  if  it  was  duty ;  but  her  tears  fell  silently  —  and  I 
stayed.  It  was  ''three  times  and  out.''  I  shall  never  go  to  the 
war  now  unless  in  defence  of  my  own  home,  which  may  God 
forbid.  Within  a  year  I  knew  that,  had  I  gone  then,  I  should 
most  hkely  not  have  returned.  I  had  received  notice  that  to 
my  dreams  of  campaigning  in  that  way  there  was  an  end. 
Thanlcful  that  I  had  been  spared,  I  yet  took  leave  of  them  with 
a  sigh ;  most  illogically,  for  I  hate  the  sight  of  human  suffering 
and  of  brutal  passions  aroused.  But  deep  down  in  my  heart 
there  is  the  horror  of  my  ^'iking  forefathers  of  dying  in  bed, 
unable  to  strike  back,  as  it  were.  I  know  it  is  wicked  and  foolish, 
but  all  my  Ufe  I  have  so  wished  to  get  on  a  horse  with  a  sword, 
and  slam  in  just  once,  like  another  Sheridan.  I,  who  cannot 
sit  on  a  horse !  Even  the  one  Roosevelt  got  me  at  Montauk 
that  was  warranted  ''not  to  bite  or  scratch"  ran  away  with  me. 
So  it  is  foolishness,  plain  to  see.  Yet,  so  I  might  have  found 
out  which  way  I  would  really  have  run  when  the  call  came. 
I  do  hope  the  right  way,  but  I  never  have  felt  quite  sure. 

The  casualties  of  war  are  not  all  on  the  battlefield.  The  Cuban 
campaign  wrecked  a  promising  career  as  a  foreign  correspondent 


WAR  FOR  THE  LAST  TIME  245 


which  I  had  been  building  up  for  some  ten  or  fifteen  years  with 
toilsome  effort.  It  was  for  a  Danish  newspaper  I  wrote  with 
much  approval,  but  when  the  war  came,  they  did  not  take  the 
same  view  of  things  that  I  did,  and  fell  to  suppressing  or  muti- 
lating my  letters,  whereupon  our  connection  ceased  abruptly. 
My  letters  were,  explained  the  editor  to  me  a  year  or  two  later 
when  I  saw  him  in  Copenhagen,  so  —  er-r  —  ultra-patriotic, 
so  —  er-r  —  youthful  in  their  enthusiasm,  that  —  huh  !  I  in- 
terrupted him  with  the  remark  that  I  was  glad  we  were  3^oung 
enough  yet  in  my  country  to  get  up  and  shout  for  the  flag  in  a 
fight,  and  left  him  to  think  it  over.  They  must  have  aged  sud- 
denly over  there,  for  they  wore  not  that  way  when  I  was  a  boy. 
The  real  fact  was  that  somehow  they  could  not  get  it  into  their 
heads  that  aJSuropean  bully  could  be  whipped  in  one  round  by 
^Hhe  States."  They  insisted  on  printing  ridiculous  despatches 
about  Spanish  victories.  I  thinlc  there  was  something  about 
codfish,  too,  something  commercial  about  corks  and  codfish  — 
Iceland  keeping  Spain  on  a  fish  diet  in  Lent,  in  return  for  which 
she  corked  the  Danish  beer  —  I  have  forgotten  the  particulars. 
The  bottom  fact  was  a  distrust  of  the  United  States  that  was 
based  upon  a  curiously  stubborn  ignorance,  entirely  without 
excuse  in  a  people  of  high  intelligence  like  the  Danes.  I  tried 
hard  as  a  correspondent  to  draw  a  reasonable,  human  picture 
of  American  affairs,  but  it  seemed  to  make  no  impression.  They 
would  jump  at  the  Munchausen  stories  that  are  always  afloat, 
as  if  America  were  some  ^ort  of  menagerie  and  not  a  Christian 
country.  I  think  nothing  ever  aggravated  me  as  did  an  instance 
of  that  kind  the  year  Ben  Butler  ran  for  the  Presidency.  I  had 
been  trying  in  my  letters  to  present  the  political  situation  and 
issues  fairly,  and  was  beginning  to  feel  that  they  must  under- 
stand, when  I  received  a  copy  of  my  paper  from  Copenhagen 
and  read  there  a  ^4ife"  of  General  Butler,  which  condensed  ran 
something  like  this :  — 


246 


THE  MAKING  OF  AN  AMERICAN 


''Mr.  Butler  was  an  ambitious  young  lawyer,  shrewd  and  full 
of  bold  schemes  for  enriching  himself.  When  the  war  with  the 
South  broke  out,  he  raised  all  the  money  he  could  and  fitted  out 
a  fleet  of  privateers.  With  this  he  sailed  for  New  Orleans, 
captured  the  city,  and,  collecting  all  the  silver  spoons  it  con- 
tained, freighted  his  vessels  with  them,  and  returned  to  the  North. 
Thus  he  laid  the  foundation  for  his  great  fortune,  but  achieved 
lasting  unpopularity  in  the  South,  which  will  prevent  his  election 
to  the  Presidency." 

I  am  not  joking.  That  was  how  the  story  of  the  silver  spoons 
looked  in  Danish  a  quarter  of  a  century  after  the  war.  Really, 
now,  what  would  you  have  done  ?  I  laughed  and  —  well ! 
made  remarks  by  turns,  and  in  the  end  concluded  that  there 
was  nothing  else  that  could  be  done  except  buckle  to  and 
try  again ;  which  I  did. 

If  I  could  not  go  to  the  war,  I  could  at  least  go  electioneering 
with  Roosevelt  when  he  came  back  and  try  to  help  him  out  the 
best  I  knew  how  in  matters  that  touched  the  poor  and  their  life, 
once  he  sat  in  Cleveland's  chair  in  Albany.  I  do  not  think  he 
felt  that  as  an  added  dignity,  but  I  did  and  I  told  him  so,  whereat 
he  used  to  laugh  a  little.  But  there  was  nothing  to  laugh  at. 
They  are  men  of  the  same  stamp,  not  saints  any  jnore  than  the 
rest  of  us,  but  men  with  minds  and  honest  wills,  if  they  have 
different  ways  of  doing  things.  I  wish  some  Cleveland  would 
come  along  again  soon  and  give  me  another  chance  to  vote  the 
ticket  which  Tammany  obstructs  with  its  impudent  claim  that 
it  is  the  Democratic  party.  As  for  Roosevelt,  few  were  nearer 
to  him,  1  fancy,  than  I,  even  at  Albany.  No  doubt  he  made 
his  mistakes  like  the  rest  of  U3,  and  when  he  did  there  were  not 
wanting  critics  to  make  the  most  of  it.  I  wish  they  had  been 
half  as  ready  to  lend  him  a  hand.  We  might  have  been  farther 
on  the  road  then.  I  saw  how  faithfully  he  labored.  I  was  his 
umpire  with  the  tailors,  with  the  drug  clerks,  in  the  enforcement 


WAR  FOR  THE  LAST  TIME 


247 


of  the  Factory  Law  against  sweaters,  and  I  know  that  early 
and  late  he  had  no  other  thought  than  how  best  to  serve  the 
people  who  trusted  him.  I  want  no  better  Governor  than  that, 
and  I  guess  we  shall  want  him  a  long  time  before  we  get  one  as 
good. 

I  found  out  upon  our  electioneering  tours  that  I  was  not  a 
good  stump-speaker,  especially  on  the  wing  with  five-minute 
stops  of  the  train.  It  used  to  pull  out  with  me  inwardly  raging, 
all  the  good  things  I  meant  to  say  unsaid.  The  politicians  knew 
that  trick  better,  and  I  left  the  field  to  them  speedily.  There- 
after I  went  along  just  for  company.  Only  two  or  three  times 
did  I  rise  to  the  occasion.  Once  when  I  spoke  in  the  square 
at  Jamestown,  N.Y.,  where  I  had  worked  as  a  young  lad  and 
trapped  muskrats  in  the  creek  for  a  living.  The  old  days  came 
back  to  me  as  I  looked  upon  that  mighty  throng,  and  the  cheers 
that  arose  from  it  told  me  that  I  had  ''caught  on."  I  was 
wondering  whether. by  any  chance  the  old  ship  captain  who 
finished  me  as  a  lecturer  once  was  in  it,  but  he  was  not ;  he  w^as 
dead.  Another  time  was  in  Flushing,  Long  Island.  There 
was  not  room  in  the  hall,  and  they  sent  me  out  to  talk  to  the 
crowd  in  the  street.  The  sight  of  it,  with  the  flickering  torch- 
Hght  upon  the  sea  of  upturned  faces,  took  me  somehow  as  nothing 
ever  had,  and  the  speech  I  made  from  the  steps,  propped  up  by 
two  policemen,  took  the  crowd,  too ;  it  cheered  so  that  Roose- 
velt within  stopped  and  thought  some  enemy  had  captured  the 
meeting.  \Ylien  he  was  gone,  with  the  spirit  still  upon  me  I 
tallied  to  the  meeting  in  the  hall  till  it  rose  and  shouted.  My 
pohtical  pet  eneni}^  from  Richmond  Hill  was  on  the  platform 
and  came  over  to  embrace  me.  We  have  been  friends  since. 
The  memory  of  that  evening  lingers  yet  in  Flushing,  I  am 
told. 

A  picture  from  that  day's  trip  through  Long  Island  will  ever 
abide  on  my  mind.    The  train  was  about  to  pull  out  from  the 


248 


THE  MAKING  OF  AN  AMERICAN 


station  in  Greenport,  when  the  pubhc  school  children  came 
swarming  down  to  see  ''Teddy."  He  leaned  out  from  the 
rear  platform,  grasping  as  many  of  the  httle  hands  as  he  could, 
while  the  train  hands  did  their  best  to  keep  the  track  clear. 
Way  back  in  the  josthng,  cheering  crowd  I  made  out  the  slim 
figure  of  a  pale,  freckled  little  girl  in  a  worn  garment,  struggling 
eagerly  but  hopelessly  to  get  near  him.  The  stronger  children 
pushed  her  farther  back,  and  her  mournful  face  was  nearly  the 
last  of  them  all  when  Roosevelt  saw  her.  Going  down  the  steps 
even  as  the  train  started,  he  made  a  quick  dash,  clearing  a  path 
through  the  surging  tide  to  the  little  girl,  and  taking  her  hand, 
gave  it  the  heartiest  shake  of  all,  then  sprinted  for  the  departing 
car  and  caught  it.  The  last  I  saw  of  Greenport  was  the  poor 
little  girl  holding  tight  the  hand  her  hero  had  shaken,  with  her 
face  all  one  sunbeam  of  joy. 

I  know  just  how  she  felt,  for  I  have  had  the  same  experience. 
One  of  the  things  I  remember  with  a  pleasure  which  the  years 
have  no  power  to  dim  is  my  meeting  with  Cardinal  Gibbons 
some  years  ago.  They  had  asked  me  to  come  to  Baltimore 
to  speak  for  the  Fresh  Air  Fund,  and  to  my  great  deh;5ht  I  found 
that  the  Cardinal  was  to  preside.  I  had  always  admired  him 
at  a  distance,  but  during  the  fifteen  minutes^  talk  we  had  before 
the  lecture  he  won  my  heart  entirely.  He  asked  me  to  forgive 
him  if  he  had  to  go  away  before  I  finished  my  speech,  for  he 
had  had  a  very  exhausting  service  the  day  before,  "  and  I  am 
an  old  man,  on  the  sunny  side  of  sixty,"  he  added  as  if  in  apology. 

''Or  the  shady  side,  you  mean,"  amended  the  Presbyterian 
clergyman  who  was  on  the  committee.  The  Cardinal  shook 
his  head,  smihng. 

"No,  doctor !    The  sunny  side  —  nearer  heaven." 

The  meeting  was  of  a  kind  to  inspire  even  the  dullest  speaker. 
When  I  finished  my  plea  for  the  children  and  turned  around, 
there  sat  the  Cardinal  yet  behind  me,  though  it  was  an  hour 


WAR  FOR  THE  LAST  TIME 


249 


past  his  bedtime.  He  came  forward  and  gave  me  his  blessing 
then  and  there.  I  was  never  so  much  touched  and  moved. 
Even  my  mother,  stanch  old  Lutheran  that  she  was,  was  satisfied 
vvhen  I  told  her  of  it,  though,  in  the  nature  of  things,  the  idea  of 
her  son  consorting  in  that  way  wath  principalities  and  powers 
in  the  enemy's  camp  must  have  been  a  shock  to  her. 

Speaking  of  wliich,  reminds  me  of  the  one  brief  glimpse  into 
the  mysteries  of  the  universe  I  had  while  in  Galesburg,  111.,  the 
same  year.  I  had  been  lecturing  at  Knox  College,  of  which  my 
friend  John  Finley  was  the  President.  It  rained  before  the 
meeting,  but  when  we  came  out,  the  stars  shone  brightly,  and 
I  was  fired  with  a  sudden  desire  to  see  them  through  the  ob- 
servatory telescope.  The  professor  of  astronomy  took  me  into 
the  dark  dome  and  pointed  the  glass  at  Saturn,  which  I  knew 
as  a  scintillating  point  of  fight,  said  to  be  a  big  round  ball  fike 
our  earth,  and  had  taken  on  trust  as  a  matter  of  course.  But 
to  see  it  hanging  there,  white  and  big  as  an  apple,  suspended 
within  its  broad  and  shining  ring,  was  a  revelation  before  which 
I  stood  awe-stricken  and  dumb.  I  gazed  and  gazed;  between 
the  star  and  its  ring  I  caught  the  infinite  depth  of  black  space 
beyond ;  I  seemed  to  see  almost  the  whirl,  the  motion ;  to  hear 
the  morning  stars  sing  together  —  and  then  like  a  flash  it  was 
gone.  Crane  my  neck  on  my  ladder  as  I  might  I  could  not  get 
sight  of  it. 

''But  where  did  she  go?''  I  said,  half  to  myself.    Far  down 
in  the  darkness  came  the  old  professor's  deep  voice  — 
''That  time  you  saw  the  earth  move." 

And  so  I  did.  The  clockwork  that  made  the  dome  keep  up 
with  the  motion  of  the  stars  —  of  our  world  rather  —  had  run 
down,  and  when  Saturn  passed  out  of  my  sight,  as  I  thought, 
it  was  the  earth  instead  which  I  fiterally  saw  move. 

And  now  that  I  am  on  my  travels  let  me  cross  the  ocean  long 
enough  to  say  that  my  digging  among  the  London  slums  one 


250         THE  MAKING  OF  Ax\  AMERICAN 


summer  only  served  to  convince  me  that  their  problem  is  the 
same  as  ours,  and  is  to  be  solved  along  the  same  lines.  They 
have  their  ways,  and  we  have  ours,  and  each  has  something  to 
learn  from  the  other.  We  copied  our  law  that  enabled  us  to 
tear  down  slum  tenements  from  the  English  statute  under 
which  they  cleared  large  areas  over  yonder  long  before  we  got 
to  work.  And  yet  in  their  poor  streets  —  in  ''Christian  Street " 
of  all  places  —  I  found  Tamilies  living  in  apartments  entirely 
below  the  sidewalk  grade.  I  found  children  poisoned  by  factory 
fumes  in  a  charitable  fold,  and  people  huddled  in  sleeping-rooms 
as  I  had  never  seen  it  in  New  York.  And  when  I  asked  why 
the  police  did  not  interfere,  they  looked  at  me  uncomprehending, 
and  retorted  that  they  were  on  their  own  premises  —  the 
factory,  too  —  and  where  did  the  police  come  in?  I  told  them 
that  in  New  York  they  came  in  when  and  where  they  saw  fit, 
and  systematically  in  the  middle  of  the  night  so  that  they 
might  get  at  the  exact  facts.  As  for  our  cave-dwellers,  we  had 
got  rid  of  them  a  long  time  since  by  the  simple  process  of  drag- 
ging out  those  who  wouldn't  go  and  shutting  the  cellar  doors 
against  them.  It  had  to  be  done  and  it  was  done,  ard  it  settled 
the  matter. 

''I  thought  yours  was  a  free  country,^'  said  my  polic-eman 
conductor.  ^ 

''So  it  is,''  I  told  him,  "freedom  to  poison  yourself  and  your 
neighbor  excepted."    He  shook  his  head,  and  we  went  on. 

But  these  were  mere  divergences  of  practice.  The  principle 
is  not  d-ffected.  It  was  clear  enough  that  in  London,  as  in  New 
York,  it  was  less  a  question  of  transforming  human  nature  in 
the  tenant  than  of  reforming  it  in  the  landlord.  At  St.  Giles 
I  found  side  by  side  with  the  work-house  a  church,  a  big  bath 
and  wash-house,  and  a  school.  It  was  the  same  at  Seven  Dials. 
At  every  step  it  recalled  the  Five  Points.  To  the  one  as  to  the 
other,  steeped  in  poverty  and  crime,  had  come  the  road-builder, 


WAR  FOR  THE  LAST  TIME 


251 


the  missionary,  the  school-teacher,  and  let  light  in  together. 
And  in  their  track  was  following,  rather  faster  there  than  here 
as  yet,  the  housing  reformer  with  his  atoning  scheme  of  philan- 
thropy and  five  per  cent.  That  holds  the  key.  In  the  last 
analysis  it  is  a  question  of  how  we  rate  the  brotherhood,  what 
per  cent  we  will  take.  My  neighbor  at  table  in  my  London 
boarding-house  meant  that,  though  he  put  it  in  a  way  all  his 
o^^^l.  He  was  a  benevolent  enough  crank,  but  no  friend  of 
preaching.  Being  a  crank,  he  condemned  preachers  with  one 
fell  swoop :  — 

''The  parsons!"  he  said;  ^'my  'evings,  what  hare  they? 
In  hall  me  life  hi've  known  only  two  that  were  fit  to  be  in  the 
pulpit." 

Returning  to  my  own  countiy,  I  found  the  conviction  deepen- 
ing wherever  the  slum  had  got  a  grip,  that  it  was  the  problem 
not  only  of  government  but  of  humanity.  In  Chicago  they 
are  setting  limits  to  it  with  parks  and  playgrounds  and  the  home 
restored.  In  Cincinnati,  in  Cleveland,  in  Boston,  they  are 
bestirring  themselves.  Indeed,  in  Boston  they  have  torn  down 
more  foul  tenements  than  did  we  in  the  metropohs,  and  with 
less  surrender  to  the  slum  landlord.  In  New  York  a  citizens^ 
movement  paved  the  way  for  the  last  Tenement-House  Commis- 
sion, which  has  just  finished  its  great  work,  and  the  movement 
is  warrant  that  the  fruits  of  that  work  wall  not  be  lost.  Listen 
to  the  arraignment  of  the  tenement  by  that  Commission,  ap- 
pointed by  the  State  :  — 

''All  the  conditions  which  surround  childhood,  youth,  and 
womanhood  in  New  York's  crowded  tenement  quarters  make 
for  unrighteousness.  They  also  make  for  disease.  .  .  .  From 
the  tenements  there  comes  a  stream  of  sick,  helpless  people  to 
our  hospitals  and  dispensaries  .  .  .  from  them  also  comes  a  host 
of  paupers  and  charity  seekers.  Most  terrible  of  all  .  .  .  the 
fact  that,  mingled  with  the  drunken,  the  dissolute,  the  im- 


252 


THE  MAKING  OF  AN  AMERICAN 


provident,  the  diseased,  dwell  the  great  mass  of  the  respectable 
workingmen  of  the  city  with  their  families/^ 

This  after  all  the  work  of  twenty  years !  Yet  the  work  was 
not  wasted,  for  at  last  we  see  the  truth.  Seeing,  it  is  impossible 
that  the  monstrous  wrong  should  go  unrighted  and  government 
of  the  people  endure,  as  endure  it  will,  I  know.  We  have  only 
begun  to  find  out  what  it  can  do  for  mankind  in  the  day  when 
we  shall  all  think  enough  about  the  common  good,  the  res 
publica,  to  forget  about  ourselves. 

In  that  day,  too,  the  boss  shall  have  ceased  from  troubhng. 
However  gross  he  wax  in  our  sight,  he  has  no  real  substance. 
He  is  but  an  ugly  dream  of  political  distemper.  Sometimes 
when  I  hear  him  spoken  of  with  bated  breath,  I  think  of  the 
Irish  teamster  who  went  to  the  priest  in  a  fright ;  he  had  seen 
a  ghost  on  the  church  wall  as  he  passed  it  in  the  night. 

^^And  what  was  it  like?"  asked  the  priest. 

^^It  was  nothing  so  much  as  a  big  ass,"  said  Patrick,  wide-eyed, 

^'Go  home,  Pat!  and  be  easy.  You've  seen  your  own 
shadow." 

But  I  am  tired  now  and  want  to  go  home  to  mother  and  rest 
awhile. 


CHAPTER  XV 


When  I  Went  Home  to  Mother 

There  was  a  heavy  step  on  the  stairs,  a  rap  that  sounded 
much  as  if  an  elephant  had  knocked  against  the  jamb  in  passing, 
and  there  in  the  door  stood  a  six-foot  giant,  calmly  surveying 
me,  as  if  I  were  a  specimen  bug  stuck  on  a  pin  for  inspection, 
instead  of  an  ordinary  man-person  with  no  more  than  two  legs. 

^'Well?''  I  said,  groping  helplessly  among  the  memories  of  the 
past  for  a  clew  to  the  apparition.  Somewhere  and  sometime  I 
had  seen  it  before;  that  much  I  knew  and  no  more. 

The  shape  took  a  step  into  the  room.  ''I  am  Jess/'  it  said 
simply,  *^Jess  Jepsen  from  Lustrup.^' 

^'Lustrup I  pushed  back  papers  and  pen  and  strode  toward 
the  giant  to  pull  him  up  to  the  light.  Lustrup !  Talk  about 
seven  league  boots !  that  stride  of  mine  was  four  thousand  miles 
long,  if  it  was  a  foot.  It  spanned  the  stormy  Atlantic  and  the 
cold  North  Sea  and  set  me  down  in  sight  of  the  little  village  of 
straw-thatched  farm-houses  where  I  played  in  the  long  ago, 
right  by  the  dam  in  the  lazy  brook  where  buttercups  and  forget- 
me-nots  nodded  ever  over  the  pool,  and  the  pewit  built  its  nest 
in  the  spring.  Just  beyond,  the  brook  issued  forth  from  the 
meadows  to  make  a  detour  around  the  sunken  walls  of  the  old 
manse  and  lose  itself  in  the  moor  that  stretched  toward  the 
western  hills.  Lustrup !  Oh,  yes !  I  pushed  my  giant  into  a 
chair  so  that  I  might  have  a  look  at  him. 

He  was  just  like  the  landscape  of  his  native  plain;  big  and 

253 


254 


THE  MAKING  OF  AN  AMERICAN 


calm  and  honest.  Nothing  there  to  hide;  couldn't  if  it  tried. 
And,  like  his  village,  he  smelled  of  the  barn-yard.  He  was  a 
driver,  he  told  me,  earning  wages.  But  he  had  his  evenings  to 
himself ;  and  so  he  had  come  to  find,  through  me,  a  school  where 
he  might  go  and  learn  English.  Just  so!  It  was  Lustrup  all 
over.  I  remember  as  though  it  were  yesterday  the  time  I  went 
up  to  have  a  look  at  the  dam  I  hadn't  seen  for  thirty  years,  and 
the  sun-fish  and  the  pewit  so  anxiously  sohcitous  for  her  young, 
and  found  the  brook  turned  aside  and  the  western  earth-wall  of 
the  manse,  which  it  skirted,  all  gone ;  and  the  story  the  big 
farmer,  Jess  Jepsen's  father,  told  me  with  such  quiet  pride, 
standing  there,  of  how  because  of  trouble  made  by  the  Germans 
at  the  ^4ine"  a  mile  away  the  cattle  business  had  run  dow^n  and 
down  until  the  farm  didn't  pay ;  how  he  and  the  boy  "  unaided, 
working  patiently  year  by  year  with  spade  and  shovel,  had  dug 
down  the  nine  acres  of  dry  upland,  moved  the  wall  into  the 
bottoms  and  turned  the  brook,  making  green  meadow  of  the 
sandy  barren,  and  saving  the  farm.  The  toil  of  twenty  years 
had  broken  the  old  man's  body,  but  his  spirit  was  undaunted  as 
ever.  There  was  a  gleam  of  triumph  in  his  eye  as  h*^. shook  his 
fist  at  the  ^4ine"  post  on  the  causeway.  ^'We  beat  them,"  he 
said;  ''we  did." 

They  did.  I  had  heard  it  told  many  times  how  this  brave 
little  people,  driven  out  of  the  German  market,  had  conquered 
the  English  and  held  it  against  the  world,  three  times  in  one 
man's  lifetime  making  a  new  front  to  changed  industrial  condi- 
tions ;  turning  from  grain-raising  to  cattle  on  the  hoof,  again  to 
slaughtered  meat,  and  once  more  to  dair^^-farming,  and  holding 
always  their  own.  How,  robbed  of  one-third  of  their  country 
by  a  faithless  foe,  they  had  set  about  with  indomitable  energy  to 
reclaim  the  arid  moor,  and  in  one  generation  laid  under  the 
plough  or  planted  as  woodland  as  great  an  area  as  that  which 
had  been  stolen  from  them.    A}^,  it  was  a  brave  record,  a  story 


WHEN  I  WENT  HOME  TO  MOTHER  255 


to  make  one  proud  of  being  of  such  a  people.  I,  too,  heard  the 
pewit's  plaint  in  my  childhood  and  caught  the  sun-fish  in  the 
brook.  I  was  a  boy  when  they  planted  the  black  post  at  the 
line  and  watered  it  with  the  blood  of  my  countrymen.  Gray- 
haired  and  with  old-time  roots  in  a  foreign  soil,  I  dream  with 
them  yet  of  the  day  that  shall  see  it  pulled  up  and  hurled  over 
the  river  where  my  fathers  beat  back  the  southern  tide  a  thou- 
sand years. 

Jess?  He  went  away  satisfied.  He  will  be  there,  when 
needed.  His  calm  eyes  warranted  that.  And  I  —  I  went  back 
to  the  old  home,  to  Denmark  and  to  my  mother;  because  I  just 
couldn't  stay  away  any  longer. 

We  had  wandered  through  Holland,  counting  the  windmills, 
studying  the  ^^explications"  set  forth  in  painfull}'  elaborate 
English  on  its  old  church  walls  with  the  information  for  travellers 
that  further  particulars  were  to  be  obtained  of  the  sexton,  who 
might  be  found  with  the  key  ^'in  the  neighborhood  No.  5."  We 
had  argued  with  the  keeper  of  the  Prinzenhof  in  Delft  that 
WilUam  the  Silent  could  not  possibly  have  been  murdered  as  he 
said  he  was  —  that  he  must  have  come  down  the  stairs  and  not 
gone  across  the  hall  when  the  assassin  shot  him,  as  any  New 
York  police  reporter  could  tell  from  the  bullet -hole  that  is  yet 
in  the  wall  —  and  thereby  wounding  his  patriotic  pride  so  deeply 
that  an  extra  fee  was  required  to  soothe  it.  I  caught  him  looking 
after  us  as  we  went  down  the  street  and  shaking  his  head  at 
those  '^wild  Americans"  who  accounted  nothing  holy,  not  even 
the  official  record  of  murder  done  while  their  ancestors  were  yet 
savages  roaming  the  plains.  We  had  laughed  at  the  coal- 
heavers  on  the  frontier  carr^dng  coal  in  baskets  up  a  ladder  to 
the  waiting  engine  and  emptying  it  into  the  fender.  And  now, 
after  parting  company  with  my  fellow-traveller  at  Hamburg, 
I  was  nearing  the  land  where  once  more  I  should  see  old  Danne- 
brog,  the  flag  that  fell  from  heaven  with  victory  to  the  hard- 


256         THE  MAKING  OF  AN  AMERICAN 


pressed  Danes.  Literally  out  of  the  sky  it  fell  in  their  sight, 
the  historic  fact  being  apparently  that  the  Christian  bishops 
had  put  up  a  job  with  the  Pope  to  wean  the  newly  converted 
Danes  away  from  their  heathen  pirate  flag  and  found  their 
opportunity  in  one  of  the  crusades  the  Danes  undertook  on  their 
own  hook  into  what  is  now  Prussia.  The  Pope  had  sent  a  silken 
banner  with  the  device  of  a  white  cross  in  red,  and  at  the  right 
moment,  when  the  other  was  taken,  the  priest  threw  it  down 
from  a  cliff  into  the  thick  of  the  battle  and  turned  its  tide.  Ever 
after,  it  was  the  flag  of  the  Danes,  and  their  German  foes  had 
reason  to  hate  it.  Here  in  Slesvig,  through  which  I  was  travel- 
ling, to  display  it  was  good  cause  for  banishment.  But  over 
yonder,  behind  the  black  post,  it  was  waiting,  and  my  heart 
leaped  to  meet  it.  Have  I  not  felt  the  thrill,  when  wandering 
abroad,  at  the  sight  of  the  stars  and  stripes  suddenly  unfolding, 
the  flag  of  my  home,  of  my  manhood's  years  and  of  my  pride? 
Happy  he  who  has  a  flag  to  love.  Twice  blest  he  who  has  two, 
and  such  two. 

We  have  yet  a  mile  to  the  frontier  and,  with  the  panorama  of 
green  meadows,  of  placid  rivers,  and  of  long-legged  storks 
gravely  patrolUng  the  marshes  in  search  of  frogs  and  lizards, 
passing  by  our  car-window,  I  can  stop  to  tell  you  how  this  fihal 
pride  in  the  flag  of  my  fathers  once  betrayed  me  into  the  hands 
of  the  Phihstines.  It  was  in  London,  during  the  wedding  of  the 
Duke  of  York.  The  king  and  queen  of  Denmark  were  in  town, 
and  wherever  one  went  was  the  Danish  flag  hung  out  in  their 
honor.  Riding  under  one  on  top  of  a  Holborn  bus,  I  asked  a 
cockney  in  the  seat  next  to  mine  what  flag  it  was.  I  wanted  to 
hear  him  praise  it,  that  was  why  I  pretended  not  to  know.  He 
surveyed  it  with  the  calm  assurance  of  his  kind,  and  made  reply :  — 

"That,  ah,  yes!  It  is  the  sign  of  St.  John's  hambulance 
corps,  the  haccident  flag,  don't  you  know,"  and  he  pointed  to 
an  ambulance  officer  just  passing  with  the  cross  device  on  his 


WHEN  I  WENT  HOME  TO  MOTHER  257 


arm.  The  Dannebrog  the  ^4iaccident  flag'M  What  did  I  do? 
What  would  you  have  done?  I  just  fumed  and  suppressed  as 
well  as  I  could  a  desire  to  pitch  that  cockney  into  the  crowds 
below,  with  his  pipe  and  his  miserable  ignorance.  But  I  had  to 
go  down  to  do  it. 

But  there  is  the  hoar}^  tower  of  the  old  Domkirke  in  wiiich  I 
was  baptized  and  confirmed  and  married,  rising  out  of  the  broad 
fields,  and  all  the  familiar  landmarks  rushing  by,  and  now  the 
train  is  slowing  up  for  the  station,  and  a  chorus  of  voices  shout 
out  the  name  of  the  wanderer.  There  is  mother  in  the  throng 
with  the  glad  tears  streaming  down  her  dear  old  face,  and  half 
the  town  come  out  to  see  her  bring  home  her  boy,  every  one  of 
them  sharing  her  joy,  to  the  very  letter-carrier  who  brought  her 
his  letters  these  many  years  and  has  grown  fairly  to  be  a  member 
of  the  famil}^  in  the  doing  of  it.  At  last  the  waiting  is  over,  and 
her  faith  justified.  Dear  old  mother!  Gray-haired  I  return, 
sadly  scotched  in  many  a  conflict  with  the  world,  yet  ever  thy 
boy,  thy  home  mine.  Ah  me  !  Heaven  is  nearer  to  us  than  we 
often  dream  on  earth. 

How  shall  I  tell  you  of  the  old  to\vn  by  the  North  Sea  that  was 
the  home  of  the  Danish  kings  in  the  days  when  kings  led  their 
armies  afield  and  held  their  crowns  by  the  strength  of  their  grip? 
Shall  I  paint  to  you  .he  queer,  crooked  streets  with  their  cobble- 
stone pavements  and  tile-roofed  houses  where  the  swallow  builds 
in  the  hall  and  the  stork  on  the  ridge-pole,  witness  both  that 
peace  dwells  within  ?  For  it  is  well  known  that  the  stork  will  not 
abide  with  a  divided  house ;  and  as  for  the  swallow,  a  plague  of 
boils  awaits  the  graceless  hand  that  disturbs  its  nest.  When  the 
Saviour  hung  upon  the  cross,  did  it  not  perch  upon  the  beam  and 
pour  forth  its  song  of  love  and  pity  to  His  dying  ear,  "  Soothe 
Him!  soothe  Him"?  The  stork  from  the  meadow  cried, 
^'Strength  Him!  strength  Him!'^  but  the  wicked  pewit,  be- 
holding the  soldiers  with  their  spears,  cried,  Pierce  Him! 
s 


258         THE  MAKING  OF  AN  A:\IERICAN 


pierce  Him !"  Hence  stork  and  swallo^v  are  the  friends  of  man, 
while  the  pewit  dwells  in  exile,  fleeing  ever  from  his  presence  with 
its  lonesome  cry. 

Will  you  wander  with  me  through  the  fields  where  the  blue- 
fringed  gentian  blooms  with  the  pink  bell-heather,  and  the  bridal 
torch  nods  from  the  brookside,  bending  its  stately  head  to  the 
west  wind  that  sweeps  ever  in  from  the  sea  with  touch  as  soft  as 
of  a  woman^s  hand?  Flat  and  uninteresting?  Yes,  if  you  will. 
If  one  sees  only  the  fields.  My  children  saw  them  and  longed 
back  to  the  hills  of  Long  Island ;  and  in  their  cold  looks  I  felt 
the  tugging  of  the  chain  which  he  must  bear  through  life  who 
exiled  himself  from  the  land  of  his  birth,  however  near  to  his 
heart  that  of  his  choice  and  his  adoption.  I  played  in  these 
fields  when  I  was  a  boy.  I  fished  in  these  streams  and  built 
fires  on  their  banks  in  spring  to  roast  potatoes  in,  the  like  of 
which  I  have  never  tasted  since.  Here  I  lay  dreaming  of  the 
great  and  beautiful  world  without,  watching  the  skylark  soar 
ever  higher  with  its  song  of  triumph  and  joy,  and  here  I  learned 
the  sweet  lesson  of  love  that  has  echoed  its  jubilant  note  through 
all  the  years,  and  will  until  we  reach  the  golden  gate,  she  and  I, 
to  which  love  holds  the  key. 

Uninteresting !  Say  you  so  ?  But  finger  here  with  me,  cast- 
ing for  pickerel  among  the  water-lilies  until  the  sun  sets  red  and 
big  over  the  sea  yonder,  and  3'ou  shall  see  a  light  upon  these 
meadows  where  the  grass  is  as  fine  sillc,  that  is  almost  as  if  it 
were  not  of  earth.  And  as  we  walk  hom.e  through  the  long 
Northern  twiUght,  fistening  to  the  curlew's  distant  call;  with 
the  browsing  sheep  looming  large  against  the  horizon  upon  the 
green  hill  where  stood  the  old  kings'  castle,  and  the  gray  Dom 
rearing  its  lofty  head  over  their  graves,  teeming  with  memories 
of  centuries  gone  and  past,  you  shall  learn  to  know  the  poetry 
of  this  Danish  summer  that  holds  the  hearts  of  its  children  mth 
such  hoops  of  steel. 


WHEN  I  WENT  HOME  TO  MOTHER  259 


At  the  south  gate  the  ^'gossip  benches"  are  filled.  The  old 
men  smoke  their  pipes  and  doff  their  caps  to  'Hhe  American'^ 
with  the  cheery  welcome  of  friends  who  knew  and  spanked  him 
with  hearty  good  will  when  as  ^^a  kid'^  he  absconded  with  their 
boats  for  a  surreptitious  expedition  up  to  the  lake.  Those  boats  ! 
heavy,  flat-bottomed,  propelled  with  a  pole  that  stuck  in  the 
mud  and  pulled  them  back  half  the  time  farther  than  the}'-  had 
gone.  But  what  fun  it  was !  In  after  years  a  steam  whistle 
woke  the  echoes  of  these  quiet  waters.  It  was  the  first  one,  and 
the  last.  The  railroad,  indeed,  came  to  town,  long  after  I  had 
gro\\Ti  to  be  a  man,  and  a  cotton-mill  interjected  its  bustle  into 
the  drowsy  hum  of  the  waterwheels  that  had  monopolized  the 
industry  of  the  town  before,  disturbing  its  harmony  for  a  season. 
But  the  steamboat  had  no  successors.  The  river  that  had  once 
borne  large  ships  gradually  sanded  up  at  the  mouth,  and  nothing 
heavier  than  a  one-masted  fighter  has  come  up,  in  the  memory 
of  man,  to  the  quay  where  grass  grows  high  among  the  cobble- 
stones and  the  lone  customs  official  smokes  his  pipe  all  day  long 
in  unbroken  peace.  The  steamer  was  a  launch  of  the  smallest. 
It  had  been  brought  across  country  on  a  wagon.  Some  one  had 
bought  it  at  an  auction  for  a  lark ;  and  a  huge  lark  was  its  year 
on  the  waters  of  the  Nibs  River.  The  whole  town  took  a  sail  in 
it  by  turns,  alw^vs  with  one  aft  whose  business  it  was  to  dis- 
entangle the  rudder  from  the  mass  of  seaweed  which  with  brief 
intervals  suspended  progress,  and  all  hands  ready  to  get  out  and 
lift  the  steamer  off  when  it  ran  on  a  bank. 

There  came  a  day  when  a  more  than  commonly  ambitious 
excursion  was  undertaken,  even  to  the  islands  in  the  sea,  some 
six  or  seven  miles  from  the  town.  The  town  council  set  out 
upon  the  journey,  with  the  rector  of  the  Latin  School  and  the 
burgomaster,  bargaining  for  dinner  on  their  return  at  dusk.  But 
it  was  destined  that  those  islands  should  remain  undiscovered 
by  steam  and  the  dinner  uneaten.    Barely  outside,  the  tide  left 


260         THE  MAKING  OF  AN  AMERICAN 


it  high  and  dry  upon  the  sands.  It  was  then  those  Danes 
showed  what  stuff  there  was  in  them.  The  water  would  not 
be  back  to  Hft  them  off  for  six  hours  and  more.  They  in- 
dulged in  no  lamentations,  but  sturdily  produced  the  schnapps 
and  sandwiches  without  which  no  Dane  is  easily  to  be  tempted 
out  of  sight  of  his  home :  the  rector  evolved  a  pack  of  cards  from 
the  depths  of  his  coat  pocket,  and  upon  the  sandbank  the  party 
camped,  playing  a  cheerful  game  of  whist  until  the  tide  came 
back  and  bore  them  home. 

The  night  comes  on.  The  people  are  returning  from  their 
evening  constitutional,  walking  in  the  middle  of  the  street  and 
taking  off  their  hats  to  their  neighbors  as  they  pass.  It  is  their 
custom,  and  the  American  habit  of  nodding  to  friends  is  held  to 
be  evidence  of  backwoods^  manners  excusable  only  in  a  people 
so  new.  In  the  deep  recesses  of  the  Domkirke  dark  shadows  are 
gathering.  The  tower  clock  peals  forth.  At  the  last  stroke  the 
watchman  lifts  up  his  chant  in  a  voice  that  comes  quavering 
down  from  bygone  ages :  — 


m 


Andante. 


-ML^^  ^  L^^         J       J-  ^  ^ 

Ho,  watchman  !  heard  ye   the   clock  strike  ten?  This 


hour     is  worth  the  know  -  ing      Ye  house-holds  high  and 


loWi,  The  tim^  is  here  and  go  -  ing  When  ye  to  bed  should 


WHEN  I  WENT  HOME  TO  MOTHER  261 


quick  and  bright,  Watch  fire  and  light, Our  clock  just  now  struck  ten. 


I  shall  take  his  ad\dce.  But  first  I  must  go  to  the  shoe-store 
to  get  a  box  of  polish  for  my  russet  shoes.  Unexpectedly  I 
found  it  for  sale  there.  I  strike  the  storekeeper  in  an  ungracious 
mood.  He  objects  to  being  bothered  about  business  just  when 
he  is  shutting  up  shop. 

"  There, he  says,  handing  me  the  desired  box.  ^'Only  one 
more  left;  I  shall  presently  have  to  send  for  more.  Twice 
already  have  I  been  put  to  that  trouble.  I  don^t  know  what  has 
come  over  the  town.'^  And  he  slams  down  the  shutter  with  a 
fretful  jerk.  I  grope  my  way  home  in  Egyptian  darkness, 
thanking  in  my  heart  the  town  council  for  its  forethought  in 
painting  the  lamp-posts  white.  It  was  when  a  dispute  sprang 
up  about  the  price  of  gas,  or  something.  Danish  disputes  are 
like  the  law  the  world  over,  slow  of  gait ;  and  it  was  in  no  spirit 
of  mockery  that  a  resolution  was  passed  to  paint  the  lamp-posts 
white,  pending  the  controversy,  so  that  the  good  people  in  the 
town  might  avoid  running  against  them  in  the  dark  and  getting 
hurt,  if  by  any  mischance  they  strayed  from  the  middle  of  the 
road. 

Bright  and  early  the  next  morning  I  found  women  at  work 
sprinkUng  white  sand  in  the  street  in  front  of  my  door,  and  strew- 
ing it  with  wintergreen  and  twigs  of  hemlock.  Some  one  was 
dead,  and  the  funeral  was  to  pass  that  way.    Indeed  they  all 


262 


THE  MAKING  OF  AN  AMERICAN 


did.  The  cemetery  was  at  the  other  end  of  the  street.  It' was 
one  of  the  inducements  held  out  to  my  mother  she  told  me,  when 
father  died,  to  move  from  the  old  home  into  that  street.  Now 
that  she  was  quite  alone,  it  was  so  ''nice  and  lively;  all  the 
funerals  passed  by.''  The  one  buried  that  day  I  had  known,  or 
she  had  known  me  in  my  boyhood,  and  it  was  expected  that  I 
would  attend.  My  mother  sent  the  wreath  that  belongs,  — 
there  is  both  sense  and  sentiment  in  flowers  at  a  funeral  when 
they  are  wreathed  by  the  hands  of  those  who  loved  the  dead,  as 
is  still  the  custom  here ;  none  where  they  are  bought  at  a  florist's 
and  paid  for  with  a  growl,  —  and  we  stood  around  the  coffin  and 
sang  the  old  hymns,  then  walked  behind  it,  two  by  two,  men 
and  women,  to  the  grave,  singing  as  we  passed  through  the  gate. 

''Earth  to  earth,  ashes  to  ashes,  dust  to  dust."  The  clods 
rang  upon  the  coffin  with  almost  cheerful  sound,  for  she  whose 
mortal  body  lay  within  was  full  of  years  and  very  tired.  The 
minister  paused.  From  among  the  mourners  came  forth  the 
nearest  relative  and  stood  by  the  grave,  hat  in  hand.  Ours  were 
all  off.  "From  my  heart  I  thank  you,  neighbors  all,"  he  said, 
and  it  was  over.  We  waited  to  shake  hands,  to  speculate  on  the 
weather,  safe  topic  even  at  funerals ;  then  went  each  to  his  own. 

I  went  down  by  the  cloister  walk  and  sat  upon  a  bench  and 
thought  of  it  all.  The  stork  had  built  its  nest  there  on  the  stump 
of  a  broken  tree,  and  was  hatching  its  young.  The  big  bird  stood 
on  one  leg  and  looked  down  upon  me  out  of  its  grave,  unblinking 
eye  as  it  did  forty  years  ago  when  we  children  sang  to  it  in  the 
street;  the  song  about  the  Pyramids  and  Pharaoh's  land.  The  town 
lay  slumbering  in  the  sunlight  and  the  blossoming  elders.  The 
far  tinkle  of  a  bell  came  sleepily  over  the  hedges.  Once  upon  a 
time  it  called  the  monks  to  prayers.  Ashes  to  ashes !  They  are 
gone  and  buried  with  the  dead  past.  To-day  it  summons  the 
Latin  School  boys  to  recitations.  I  shuddered  at  the  thought. 
They  had  at  the  school,  when  the  bell  called  me  with  the  rest, 


WHEN  I  WENT  HOME  TO  MOTHER  263 


a  wretched  tradition  that  some  king  had  once  expressed  wonder 
at  the  many  learned  men  who  came  from  the  Latin  School. 
And  the  rector  told  him  why. 

''We  have  near  here,"  he  said,  ''a  little  birch  forest.  It  helps, 
your  Majesty,  it  helps. Faithfully  did  it  play  its  part  in  my 
day,  though  I  cannot  bear  witness  that  it  helped.  But  its  day 
passed,  too,  and  is  gone.  The  world  moves  and  all  the  while 
forward.  Not  always  with  the  speed  of  the  wind  ;  but  it  moves. 
The  letter-carrier  on  his  collecting  rounds  with  his  cart  has 
stopped  at  the  bleaching  yard  where  his  wife  and  little  boy  are 
hanging  out  washing.  He  hghts  his  pipe  and,  after  a  brief  rest 
to  take  breath,  turns  to  helping  the  gude  wife  hang  the  things  on 
the  line.  Then  he  packs  the  dry  clothes  on  his  cart,  puts  the  boy 
in  with  them  and,  puffing  leisurely  at  his  pipe,  lounges  soberly 
homeward.    There  is  no  hurry  with  the  mail. 

There  is  not.  It  was  only  yesterday  that,  crossing  the  mead- 
ows on  a  ''local,"  I  found  the  train  puUing  up  some  distance 
from  the  ^411age  to  let  an  old  woman,  coming  puffing  and  blowing 
from  a  farm-house  with  tx  basket  on  her  arm,  catch  up. 

"Well,  mother,  can  she  hurry  a  bit?"  spake  the  conductor 
when  she  came  within  hearing.  They  address  one  another  in  the 
third  person  out  of  a  sort  of  neighborly  regard,  it  appears. 

"Now,  sonny,"  responded  the  old  woman,  as  she  lumbered  on 
board,  "don't  I  run  as  fast  as  I  can?" 

"And  has  she  got  her  fare,  now?"  queried  the  conductor. 

"Why,  no,  sonny;  how  should  I  have  that  till  I've  been  in  to 
sell  my  eggs? "  and  she  held  up  the  basket  in  token  of  good  faith. 

"Well,  well,"  growled  the  other,  "see  to  it  that  she  doesn't 
forget  to  pay  it  when  she  comes  back."    And  the  train  went  on. 

Time  to  wait !  The  deckhand  on  the  ferry-boat  lifts  his  hat 
and  bids  you  God  speed,  as  you  pass.'  The  train  waits  for  the 
conductor  to  hear  the  station-master's  account  of  that  last  baby 
and  his  assurance  that  the  mother  is  doing  well.    The  laborer 


264         THE  MAKING  OF  AN  AMERICAN 


goes  on  strike  when  his  right  is  questioned  to  stop  work  to  take 
his  glass  of  beer  between  meals ;  the  telegraph  messenger,  meet- 
ing the  man  for  whom  he  has  a  message,  goes  back  home  with 
him  "to  hear  the  news/^  It  would  not  be  proper  to  break  it  in 
the  street.  I  remember  once  coming  down  the  chain  of  lakes  in 
the  Jutland  peninsula  on  a  steamer  that  stopped  at  an  out-of-the- 
way  landing  where  no  passengers  were  in  waiting.  One,  a 
woman,  was  made  out,  though,  hastening  down  a  path  that  lost 
itself  in  the  woods  a  long  way  off.  The  captain  waited.  As 
she  stepped  aboard  another  woman  appeared  in  the  dim  dis- 
tance, running,  too.  He  blew  his  whistle  to  tell  her  he  was 
waiting,  but  said  nothing.  When  she  was  quite  near  the 
steamer,  a  third  woman  turned  into  the  path,  bound,  too,  for 
the  landing.  I  looked  on  in  some  fear  lest  the  steamboat  man 
should  lose  his  temper  at  length.  But  not  he.  It  was  only 
when  a  fourth  and  last  woman  appeared  hke  a  whirling  speck  in 
the  distance,  with  the  three  aboard  making  frantic  signals  to  her 
to  hurry,  that  he  showed  signs  of  impatience.  Couldn't  she,'' 
he  said,  with  some  asperity,  as  she  flounced  aboard,  ^'couldn't 
she  get  here  sooner?" 

^'No,"  she  said,  ''I  couldn't.  Didn't  you  see  me  run?"  And 
he  rang  the  bell  to  start  the  boat. 

Time  to  wait !  In  New  York  I  have  seen  men,  in  the  days 
before  the  iron  gates  were  put  on  the  ferry-boats,  jump  when  the 
boat  was  yet  a  yard  from  the  landing  and  run  as  if  their  lives 
depended  o^i  it;  then,  meeting  an  acquaintance  in  the  street, 
stop  and  chat  ten  minutes  with  him  about  nothing.  How  much 
farther  did  they  get  than  these?  When  all  Denmark  was  torn 
up  last  summer  by  a  strike  that  involved  three-fourths  of  the 
working  population  and  extended  through  many  months,  to  the 
complete  blocking  of  all  industries,  not  a  blow  was  struck  or  an 
ill  word  spoken  during  all  the  time,  determined  as  both  sides 
were.    No  troops  or  extra  police  were  needed.    The  strikers 


WHEN  I  WENT  HOME  TO  MOTHER  265 


used  the  time  to  attend  university  extension  lectures,  visit 
museums  and  learn  something  useful.  The  people,  including 
many  of  the  employers,  contributed  liberally  to  keep  them  from 
starving.  It  was  a  war  of  principles,  and  it  was  fought  out  on 
thathne,  though  in  the  end  each  gave  in  to  something.  Yes, 
it  is  good,  sometimes,  to  take  time  to  think,  even  if  5''ou  cannot 
wait  for  the  tide  to  float  you  off  a  sandbank.  Though  what  else 
they  could  have  done,  I  cannot  imagine. 

That  night  there  was  a  great  to-do  in  the  old  town.  The 
target  company  had  its  annual  shoot,  and  the  target  company 
included  all  of  the  solid  citizens  of  the  town.  The  ''king,"  who 
had  made  the  best  score,  was  escorted  with  a  band  to  the  hotel 
on  the  square  opposite  the  Dom,  and  made  a  speech  from  a 
window,  adorned  with  the  green  sash  of  his  office,  and  flanked 
by  ten  tallow-dips  by  way  of  illumination.  And  the  people 
cheered.  Yes !  it  was  petty  and  provincial  and  all  that.  But 
it  was  pleasant  and  neighborly,  and  oh !  how  good  for  a  tired 
man. 

When  I  was  rested,  I  journeyed  through  the  islands  to  find  old 
friends,  and  found  them.  The  heartiness  of  the  welcome  that 
met  me  everywhere  !  No  need  of  their  telling  me  they  were  glad 
to  see  me.  It  shone  out  of  their  faces  and  all  over  them.  I  shall 
always  remember  that  journey :  the  people  in  the  cars  that  were 
forever  lunching?  and  urging  me  to  join  in,  though  we  had  never 
met  before.  Were  we  not  fellow-travellers?  How,  then,  could 
we  be  strangers?  And  when  they  learned  I  was  from  New 
York,  the  inquiries  after  Hans  or  Fritz,  somewhere  in  Nebraska 
or  Dakota.  Had  I  ever  met  them?  and,  if  I  did,  would  I  tell 
them  I  had  seen  father,  mother,  or  brother,  and  that  they  were 
well  ?  And  would  I  come  and  stay  with  them  a  day  or  two  ?  It 
was  with,  very  genuine  regret  that  I  had  mostly  to  refuse.  My 
vacation  could  not  last  forever.  As  it  was,  I  packed  it  full 
enough  to  last  me  for  many  summers.    Of  all  sorts  of  things, 


266 


THE  MAKING  OF  AN  AMERICAN 


too.  Shall  I  ever  forget  that  ride  on  the  stage  up  the  shore-road 
from  Elsmore,  which  I  made  outside  with  the  driver,  a  slow- 
going  farmer  who  had  conscientious  scruples,  so  it  seemed, 
against  passing  any  vehicle  on  the  road  and  preferred  to  take  the 
dust  of  them  all,  until  we  looked  like  a  pair  of  dusty  millers  up 
there  on  the  box.  To  my  protests  he  turned  an  incredulous  ear, 
remarking  only  that  there  was  always  some  one  ahead, 
which  was  a  fact.  When  at  last  we  diew  near  our  destination 
he  found  himself  a  passenger  short.  After  some  puzzled  inquiry 
of  the  rest  he  came  back  and,  mounting  to  his  seat  beside  me,  said 
quietly:  *'One  of  them  fell  out  on  his  head,  they  say,  down  the 
road.  I  had  him  to  deliver  at  the  inn,  but  it  can^t  be  blamed  on 
me,  can  it?^' 

He  was  not  the  only  philosopher  in  that  company.  Inside 
rode  two  passengers,  one  apparently  an  official,  sheriff,  or  some- 
thing, the  other  a  doctor,  who  debated  all  the  way  the  propriety 
of  uniforming  the  physician  in  attendance  upon  executions.  The 
sheriff  evidently  considered  such  a  step  an  invasion  of  his  official 
privilege.  ^^Why,'^  cried  the  doctor,  ''it  is  almost  impossible 
now  to  tell  the  difference  between  the  doctor  and  the  delinquent. 
"Ah,  welV  sighed  the  other,  placidly  setthng  back  iix  his  seat. 
"Just  let  them  once  take  the  wrong  man,  then  we  shall  see.*' 

Through  forest  and  field,  over  hill  and  vale,  by  the  still  waters 
where  far  islands  lay  shimmering  upon  the  summer  sea  like  float- 
ing fairy-lands,  into  the  deep,  gloomy  moor  went  my  way.  The 
moor  was  ever  most  to  my  liking.  I  was  born  on  the  edge  of  it, 
and  once  its  majesty  has  sunk  into  a  human  soul,  that  soul  is  for- 
ever after  attuned  to  it.  How  Uttle  we  have  the  making  of  our- 
selves. And  how  much  greater  the  need  that  we  should  make 
of  that  little  the  most.  All  my  days  I  have  been  preaching 
against  heredity  as  the  arch-enemy  of  hope  and  effort,  and  here 
is  mine,  holding  me  fast.  When  I  see,  rising  out  of  the  dark 
moor,  the  lonely  cairn  that  sheltered  the  bones  of  my  fathers 


WHEN  I  WENT  HOME  TO  MOTHER  267 


before  the  White  Christ  preached  peace  to  their  land,  a  great 
yearning  comes  over  me.  There  I  want  to  lay  mine.  There  I 
want  to  sleep,  under  the  heather  where  the  bees  hum  drowsily 
in  the  purple  broom  at  noonda}"  and  white  shadows  w^alk  in  the 
night.  Mist  from  the  marshes  they  are,  but  the  people  think 
them  wraiths.  Half  heathen  yet,  am  I?  Yes,  if  to  yearn  for 
the  soil  whence  you  sprang  is  to  be  a  heathen,  heathen  am  I,  not 
half,  but  whole,  and  will  be  all  my  days. 

But  not  so.  He  is  the  heathen  who  loves  not  his  native  land. 
Thor  long  since  lost  his  grip  on  thd  sons  of  the  vikings.  Over 
the  battlefield  he  drives  his  chariot  yet,  and  his  hammer  strikes 
fire  as  of  old.  The  British  remember  it  from  Nelson's  raid  on 
Copenhagen ;  the  Germans  felt  it  in  1849,  and  again  when  in  the 
fight  for  very  life  the  little  country  held  its  o^vn  a  whole  winter 
against  two  great  powers  on  rapine  bent ;  felt  it  at  Helgoland 
where  its  sailors  scattered  their  navies  and  drove  them  from  the 
sea,  beaten.  Yet  never  did  the  White  Christ  work  greater 
transformation  in  a  people,  once  so  fierce,  now  so  gentle  unless 
when  fighting  for  its  firesides.  Forest  and  field  teem  with 
legends  that  tell  of  it ;  tell  of  the  battle  between  the  old  and  the 
new,  and  the  victory  of  peace.    Every  hilltop  bears  witness  to  it. 

Here  by  the  wayside  stands  a  wooden  cross.  All  the  country- 
side knows  the  story  of  ''  Holy  Andrew,"  the  priest  whose  piety 
wrought  miracles  far  and  near.  Once  upon  a  time,  runs  the 
legend,  he  went  on  a  pilgrimage  to  the  Holy  Land,  and  was  left 
behind  by  his  companions  because  he  would  not  sail,  be  wind  and 
tide  ever  so  fair,  without  first  going  to  mass  to  pray  for  a  safe 
journey.  When,  his  devotions  ended,  he  went  to  the  dock,  he  saw 
only  the  sail  of  the  departing  craft  sinking  below  the  horizon. 
Overcome  by  grief  and  loneliness,  he  stood  watching  it,  thinking 
of  friends  at  home  whom  he  might  never  again  see,  when  a  horse- 
man reined  in  his  steed  and  bade  him  mount  with  him;  he 
would  see  him  on  his  w^ay.    Andrew  did,  and  fell  asleep  in  the 


268         THE  MAKING  OF  AN  AMERICAN 


stranger^s  arms.  When  he  awoke  he  lay  on  this  hill,  where  the 
<?ross  has  stood  ever  since,  heard  the  cattle  low  and  saw  the 
spire  of  his  church  in  the  village  where  the  vesper  bells  were 
ringing.  Many  months  went  by  before  his  fellow-pilgrims 
reached  home.  Holy  Andrew  lived  six  hundred  years  ago.  A 
masterful  man  was  he,  beside  a  holy  one,  who  bluntly  told  the 
king  the  truth  when  he  needed  it,  and  knew  how  to  ward  the 
faith  and  the  church  committed  to  his  keeping.  By  such  were 
the  old  rovers  weaned  from  their  wild  life.  What  a  mark  he 
left  upon  his  day  is  shown  yet  by  the  tradition  that  disaster 
impends  if  the  cross  is  allowed  to  fall  into  decay.  Once  when 
it  was  neglected,  the  cattle-plague  broke  out  in  the  parish  and 
ceased,  says  the  story,  not  until  it  was  restored,  when  right 
away  there  was  an  end. 

Holy  Andrew's  church  still  stands  over  yonder.  Not  that  one 
wdth  the  twin  towers.  That  has  another  story  to  tell,  one  that 
was  believed  to  be  half  or  wholly  legend,  too,  until  a  recent 
restoration  of  it  brought  to  light  under  the  whitewash  of  the 
reformation  mural  paintings  which  furnished  the  lacking  proof 
that  it  was  all  true.  It  was  in  the  days  of  Holy  Andrew  that  the 
pious  knight,  Sir  Asker  Ryg,  going  to  the  war,  told  the  lady  Inge 
to  build  a  new  church.  The  folk-song  tells  what  was  the  matter 
with  the  old  one   with  wall  of  clay,  straw-thatched  and  grim   :  — 

The  wall  it  was  mouldy  and  foul  and  green, 
And  rent  with  a  crack  full  deep ; 
Time  gnaweth  ever  with  sharper  tooth, 
Leaves  little  to  mend,  I  ween. 

Nothing  was  left  to  mend  in  the  church  of  Fjenneslev,  so  she 
must  build  a  new.  ^^It  is  not  fitting, says  the  knight  in  the 
song,  ^Ho  pray  to  God  in  such  a  broken  wrack.  The  wind  blows 
in  and  the  rain  drips'' :  — 

Christ  has  gone  to  His  heavenly  home ; 
No  more  a  manger  beseems  Him. 


WHEN  I  WENT  HOME  TO  MOTHER  269 


'Mnd,"  he  whispers  to  her  at  the  leave-taking,  ^'an^  thou 
bearest  to  our  house  a  boy,  build  a  tower  upon  the  church ;  if  a 
daughter  come,  build  but  a  spire.  A  man  must  fight  his  way, 
but  humility  becomes  a  woman 

Then  the  fight,  and  the  return  with  victory;  the  impatient 
ride  that  left  all  the  rest  behind  as  they  neared  home,  the  un- 
spoken prayer  of  the  knight  as  he  bent  his  head  over  the  saddle- 
bow, riding  up  the  hill  over  the  edge  of  which  the  church  must 
presently  appear,  that  it  might  be  a  tower;  and  his  '^sly  laugh" 
when  it  comes  into  view  with  two  towers  for  one.  Well  might  he 
laugh.  Those  twin  brothers  became  the  makers  of  Danish 
history  in  its  heroic  age;  the  one  a  mighty  captain,  the  other 
a  great  bishop.  King  Valdemar's  friend  and  counsellor,  who 
fought  when  there  was  need  ^'as  well  with  sword  as  with  book." 
Absalon  left  the  country  Christian  to  the  core.  It  was  his  clerk, 
Saxo,  surnamed  Grammaticus  because  of  his  learning,  who  gave 
to  the  world  the  collection  of  chronicles  and  traditionary  lore 
to  which  we  owe  our  Hamlet. 

The  church  stands  there  with  its  two  towers.  They  made 
haste  to  restore  them  when  they  read  in  the  long-hidden  paint- 
ings the  story  of  Sir  Asker's  return  and  gratitude,  just  as  tradition 
had  handed  it  down  from  the  twelfth  century.  It  is  not  the  first 
time  the  loyal  faith  of  the  people  has  proved  a  better  guide  than 
carping  critics,  am"'  likely  it  will  not  be  the  last. 

I  rediscovered  on  that  trip  the  ancient  bell  woman,  sole  adver- 
tising medium  before  the  advent  of  the  printing-press,  the  extinct 
chimney-sweep,  the  ornarnental  policeman  who  for  professional 
excitement  reads  detective  novels  at  home,  and  the  sacrificial 
rites  of  —  of  what  or  whom  I  shall  leave  unsaid.  But  it  must 
have  been  an  unconscious  survival  of  something  of  the  sort  that 
prompted  the  butcher  to  adorn  with  gay  ribbons  the  poor  nag 
led  to  the  slaughter  in  the  wake  of  the  town  drummer.  He 
designed  it  as  an  advertisement  that  there  would  be  fresh  horse 


270 


THE  MAKING  OF  AN  AMERICAN 


meat  for  sale  that  day.  The  horse  took  it  as  a  compliment  and 
walked  in  the  procession  with  visible  pride.  And  I  found  the 
church  in  which  no  collection  was  ever  taken.  It  was  the  very 
Dom  in  my  own  old  town.  The  velvet  purses  that  used  to  be 
poked  into  the  pews  on  Sundays  on  long  sticks  were  missing,  and 
I  asked  about  them.  They  had  not  used  them  in  a  long  time, 
said  the  beadle,  and  added,  ^'It  was  a  kind  of  Catholic  fashion 
anyway,  and  no  good.'^  The  pews  had  apparently  suspected 
as  much,  and  had  held  haughtily  aloof  from  the  purses.  Thai 
may  have  been  another  reason  for  their  going. 

The  old  town  ever  had  its  own  ways.  They  were  mostly  good 
ways,  though  sometimes  odd.  Who  but  a  Ribe  citizen  would 
have  thought  of  Knud  Clausen's  way  of  doing  my  wife  honor  on 
the  Sunday  morning  when,  as  a  young  girl,  she  went  to  church 
to  be  confirmed?  Her  father  and  Knud  were  neighbors  and 
Knud's  barn-yard  was  a  sore  subject  between  them,  being  right 
under  the  other's  dining-room  window.  He  sometimes  protested 
and  oftener  offered  to  buy,  but  Knud  would  neither  listen  nor  sell. 
But  he  loved  the  ground  his  neighbor's  pretty  daughter  walked 
upon,  as  did,  indeed,  every  poor  man  in  the  town,  and  on  her 
Sunday  he  showed  it  by  strewing  the  offensive  pile  ^vith  fresh  cut 
grass  and  leaves,  and  sticking  it  full  of  flowers.  It  was  well 
meant,  and  it  was  Danish  all  over.  Stick  up  for  your  rights  at 
any  cost.    These  secure,  go  any  length  to  oblige  a  neighbor. 

Journeying  so,  I  came  from  the  home  of  dead  kings  at  last  to 
that  of  the  hving,  —  old  King  Christian,  beloved  of  his  people,  — 
where  once  m}^  children  horrified  the  keeper  of  Rosenborg 
Palace  by  playing  ''the  Wild  Man  of  Borneo"  with  the  official 
silver  Hons  in  the  great  knights'  hall.  And  I  saw  the  old  town 
IK)  more.  But  in  my  dreams  I  walk  its  peaceful  streets,  listen 
to  the  whisper  of  the  reeds  in  the  dry  moats  about  the  green 
castle  hill,  and  hear  my  mother  call  me  once  more  her  boy.  And 
I  know  that  I  shall  find  them,  with  my  lost  childhood,  when  we 
all  reac-i  home  at  last. 


CIL\PTER  XVI 


The  American  ]\Iade 

Long  ago,  when  I  found  my  work  beginning  to  master  me,  I 
put  up  a  nest  of  fifty  pigeonholes  in  my  office  so  that  with  system 
I  might  get  the  upper  hand  of  it;  only  to  find,  as  the  years 
passed,  that  I  had  got  fifty  tyrants  for  one.  The  other  day  I  had 
to  call  in  a  Hessian  to  help  me  tame  the  pigeonholes.  He  was  a 
serious  library  person,  and  he  could  not  quite  make  out  what  it 
meant  when  among  such  heads  as  "Slum  Tenements, "The 
Bend,'^  and  "Rmn's  Cuise,'^  he  came  upon  this  one  over  one  of 
the  pigeonholes :  — 

Him  all  that  goodly  company 

Did  as  deliverer  hail. 
They  tied  a  ribbon  round  his  neck, 

Another  round  his  tail. 

With  all  his  learning,  his  education  was  not  finished,  for  he  had 
missed  the  "delectable  ballad  of  the  Waller  lot'^  and  Eugene 
Field's  account  of  the  dignities  that  were  "heaped  upon  Clow's 
noble  yellow  pup,''  else  he  would  have  understood.  The  pigeon- 
hole contained  most  of  the  "honors"  that  have  come  to  me  of 
late  years,  —  the  nominations  to  membership  in  societies,  guilds, 
and  committees,  in  conventions  at  home  and  abroad,  —  most 
of  them  declined,  as  I  dechned  Governor  Roosevelt's  request 
that  I  should  serve  on  the  last  Tenement-House  Commission, 

271 


272 


THE  MAKING  OF  AN  AMERICAN 


for  the  reason  which  I  have  given  heretofore,  that  to  represent  is 
not  my  business.  To  write  is ;  I  can  do  it  much  better  and  back 
up  the  other ;  so  we  are  two  for  one.  Not  that  I  would  be  under- 
stood as  being  insensible  of  the  real  honor  intended  to  be  con- 
ferred by  such  tokens.  I  do  not  hold  them  lightly.  I  value  the 
good  opinion  of  my  fellow-men,  for  with  it  comes  increased 
power  to  do  things.  But  I  would  reserve  the  honors  for  those 
who  have  fairly  earned  them,  and  on  whom  they  sit  easy.  They 
don't  on  me.  I  am  not  ornamental  by  nature.  Now  that  I  have 
told  all  there  is  to  tell,  the  reader  is  at  liberty  to  agree  with  my 
little  boy  concerning  the  upshot  of  it.  He  was  having  a  heart- 
to-heart  talk  with  his  mother  the  other  day,  in  the  course  of 
which  she  told  him  that  we  must  be  patient ;  no  one  in  the  world 
was  all  good  except  God. 

"And  ycu,''  said  he,  admiringly.    He  is  his  father's  son. 

She  demurred,  but  he  stoutly  maintained  his  own. 

"Fll  bet  you,''  he  said,  "if  you  were  to  ask  lots  of  people 
around  here  they  would  say  you  were  fine.  But "  —  he  struggled 
reflectively  with  a  button  —  "Gee!  I  can't  understand  why 
they  make  such  a  fuss  about  papa." 

Out  of  the  mouth  of  babes,  etc.  The  boy  is  right.  I  cannot 
either,  and  it  makes  me  feel  small.  I  did  my  work  and  tried  to 
put  into  it  what  I  thought  citizenship  ought  to  be,  when  I  made 
it  out.  I  wish  I  had  made  it  out  earher  for  my  own  peace  of 
mind.    And  that  is  all  there  is  to  it. 

For  bating  the  slum  what  credit  belongs  to  me?  Who  could 
love  it?  When  it  comes  to  that,  perhaps  it  was  the  open,  the 
woods,  the  freedom  of  my  Danish  fields  I  loved,  the  contrast 
that  was  hateful.  I  hate  darkness  and  dirt  anywhere,  and 
naturally  want  to  let  in  the  light.  I  will  have  no  dark  corners 
in  my  own  cellar;  it  must  be  whitewashed  clean.  Nature,  I 
think,  intended  me  for  a  cobbler,  or  a  patch-tailor.  I  love  to 
mend  and  make  crooked  things  straight.    When  I  was  a  car- 


THE  AMERICAN  M^.DE 


273 


penter  I  preferred  to  make  an  old  house  over  to  building  a  new. 
Just  now  I  am  tr3dng  to  help  a  young  couple  set  up  in  the  laundiy 
business.  It  is  along  the  same  line ;  that  is  the  reason  I  picked 
it  out  for  them.  If  any  of  my  readers  know  of  a  good  place  for 
them  to  start  I  wish  they  would  tell  me  of  it.  They  are  just 
two  —  young  people  w4th  the  world  before  them.  My  office 
years  ago  became  notorious  as  a  sort  of  misfit  shop  where  things 
were  matched  that  had  got  mislaid  in  the  hurrv'  and  bustle  of  life, 
in  which  some  of  us  always  get  shoved  aside.  vSome  one  hai?  got 
to  do  that,  and  I  like  the  job ;  which  is  fortunate,  for  I  have  no 
head  for  creative  work  of  any  kind.  The  publishers  bother  me 
to  write  a  novel;  editors  want  me  on  their  staffs.  I  shall  do 
neither,  for  the  good  reason  that  I  am  neither  poet,  philosopher, 
nor,  I  was  going  to  say,  philanthropist ;  but  leave  me  that. 
I  would  love  m}^  fellow-man.  For  the  rest  I  am  a  reporter  of 
facts.  And  that  I  would  remain.  So,  I  know  what  I  can  do 
and  how  to  do  it  best. 

We  all  love  power  —  to  be  on  the  wanning  side.  You  cannot 
help  being  there  when  you  are  fighting  the  slum,  for  it  is  the 
cause  of  justice  and  right.  How  then  can  you  lose?  And  what 
matters  it  how^  you  fare,  your  cause  is  bound  to  win.  I  said  it 
before,  but  it  will  bear  to  be  said  again,  not  once  but  many  times : 
every  defeat  in  such  a  fight  is  a  step  toward  victory,  taken  in 
the  right  spirit.  In  the  end  you  will  come  out  ahead.  The 
power  of  the  biggest  boss  is  like  chaff  in  your  hands.  You  can 
see  his  finish.  And  he  knows  it.  Hence,  even  he  will  treat  you 
with  respect.  However  he  try  to  bluff  you,  he  is  the  one  who 
is  afraid.  The  ink  was  not  dry  upon  Bishop  Potter's  arraign- 
ment of  Tammany  bestiality  before  Richard  Croker  was  offering 
to  sacrifice  his  most  faithful  henchmen  as  the  price  of  peace ;  and 
he  would  have  done  it  had  the  Bishop  but  crooked  his  little 
finger  in  the  direction  of  any  one  of  them.  The  boss  has  the 
courage  of  the  brute,  or  he  would  not  be  boss;  but  when  it 

T 


274         THE  MAKING  OF  AN  AMERICAN 


comes  to  a  moral  issue  he  is  the  biggest  coward  in  the  lot.  The 
bigger  the  brute  the  more  abject  its  terror  at  what  it  does  not 
understand. 

Some  of  the  honors  I  refused;  there  were  some  my  heart 
craved,  and  I  could  not  let  them  go.  There  hangs  on  my  wall 
the  passport  Governor  Roosevelt  gave  me  when  I  went  abroad, 
dearer  to  me  than  sheepskin  or  degree,  for  the  heart  of  a  friend 
is  in  it.  What  would  I  not  give  to  be  worthy  of  its  faithful 
affection !  Sometimes  when  I  go  abroad  I  wear  upon  my  breast 
a  golden  cross  which  King  Christian  gave  me.  It  is  the  old 
Crusaders'  cross,  in  the  sign  of  which  my  stern  forefathers  con- 
quered the  heathen  and  themselves  on  many  a  hard-fought  field. 
My  father  wore  it  for  long  and  faithful  service  to  the  State.  I 
rendered  none.  I  can  think  of  but  one  chance  I  had  to  strike 
a  blow  for  the  old  flag.  That  was  when  in  a  typhus  epidemic  I 
found  the  health  officers  using  it  as  a  fever  flag  to  warn  boats 
away  from  the  emergency  hospital  pier  at  East  Sixteenth  Street. 
They  had  no  idea  of  what  flag  it  was :  they  just  happened  to  have 
it  on  hand.  But  they  found  out  quickly.  I  gave  them  half  an 
hour  in  which  to  find  another.  The  hospital  was  full  of  very 
sick  patients,  or  I  should  have  made  them  fire  a  salute  to  old 
Dannebrog  by  way  of  reparation.  As  it  was,  I  think  they  had 
visions  of  ironclads  in  the  East  River.  They  had  one  of  a  very 
angry  reporter,  anyhow.  But  though  I  did  nothing  to  deserve 
it,  I  wear  the  cross  proudly  for  the  love  I  bear  the  flag  under 
which  I  was  born  and  the  good  old  King  who  gave  it  to  me.  I  saw 
him  o^ten  when  I  was  a  young  lad.  In  that  which  makes  the 
man  he  had  not  changed  when  last  I  met  him  in  Copenhagen. 
They  told  there  how  beggars  used  to  waylay  him  on  his  daily 
walks  until  the  police  threatened  them  with  arrest.  Then  they 
stood  at  a  distance  making  sorrowful  gestures;  and  the  King, 
who  understood,  laid  a  silver  coin  upon  the  palace  window  shelf 
and  went  his  way.    The  King  must  obey  the  law,  but  he  can 


THE  AMERICAN  MADE 


275 


forget  the  principles  of  almsgiving,  as  may  the  rest  of  us  at 
Christmas,  and  be  blameless. 

Of  that  last  meeting  with  King  Christian  I  mean  to  let  my 
American  fellow-citizens  know  so  that  they  may  understand 
what  manner  of  man  is  he  whom  they  call  in  Europe  its  first 
gentleman'^  and  in  Denmark  ''the  good  King/'  But  first  I  shall 
have  to  tell  how  my  father  came  to  wear  the  cross  of  Danne- 
brog.  He  was  very  old  at  the  time ;  retired  long  since  from  his 
post  which  he  had  filled  faithfully  forty  years  and  more.  In 
some  way,  I  never  knew  quite  how,  they  passed  him  by  with  the 
cross  at  the  time  of  the  retirement.  Perhaps  he  had  given 
offence  b}^  refusing  a  title.  He  was  an  independent  old  man  and 
cared  nothing  for  such  things;  but  I  knew  that  the  cross  he 
would  gladly  have  worn  for  the  King  he  had  served  so  well.  And 
when  he  sat  in  the  shadow,  vdth  the  darkness  closing  in,  I 
planned  to  get  it  for  him  as  the  one  thing  I  knew  would  give  him 
pleasure. 

But  the  official  red  tap-^  was  stronger  than  I;  until  one  day, 
roused  to  anger  by  it  all,  I  wrote  direct  to  the  King  and  told  him 
about  it.  I  showed  him  the  wTong  that  had  been  done,  and  told 
him  that  I  was  sure  he  would  set  it  right  as  soon  as  he  knew  of  it. 
And  I  was  not  mistaken.  The  old  town  was  put  into  a  great 
state  of  excitement  and  mystification  when  one  day  there  arrived 
in  a  large  official  envelope,  straight  from  the  King,  the  cross  long 
since  given  up ;  for,  indeed,  the  Minister  had  told  me  that,  my 
father  having  been  retired,  the  case  was  closed.  The  injustice 
that  had  been  done  was  itself  a  bar  to  its  being  undone ;  there 
was  no  precedent  for  such  action.  That  was  what  I  told  the 
King,  and  also  that  it  was  his  business  to  set  precedents,  and  he 
did.  Four  years  later,  when  I  took  my  children  home  to  let  my 
father  bless  them,  —  they  were  his  only  grandchildren  and  he 
had  never  seen  any  of  them,  —  he  sat  in  his  easy  chair  and 
wondered  yet  at  the  queer  way  in  which  that  cross  came.  And 


276         THE  MAKING  OF  AN  AMERICAN 


I  marvelled  with  him.  He  died  without  knowing  how  I  had 
interfered.    It  was  better  so. 

It  was  when  I  went  home  to  mother  that  I  met  King  Christian 
last.  They  had  told  me  the  right  way  to  approach  the  King, 
the  proper  number  of  bows  and  all  that,  and  I  meant  to  faithfully 
observe  it  all.  I  saw  a  tired  and  lonely  old  man,  to  whom  my 
heart  went  out  on  the  instant,  and  I  went  right  up  and  shook 
hands,  and  told  him  how  much  I  thought  of  him  and  how  sorry 
I  was  for  his  losing  his  wife,  the  Queen  Louise,  whom  everybody 
loved.  He  looked  surprised  a  moment;  then  such  a  friendly 
look  came  into  his  face,  and  I  thought  him  the  handsomest  King 
that  ever  was.  He  asked  about  the  Danes  in  America,  and  I  told 
him  they  were  good  citizens,  better  for  not  forgetting  their 
motherland  and  him  in  his  age  and  loss.  He  patted  my  hand 
with  a  glad  little  laugh,  and  bade  me  tell  them  how  much  he 
appreciated  it,  and  how  kindly  his  thoughts  were  of  them  all. 
As  I  made  to  go,  after  a  long  talk,  he  stopped  me  and,  touching 
the  little  silver  cross  on  my  coat  lapel,  asked  what  it  was. 

I  told  him ;  told  him  of  the  motto,  ''In  His  Name,^'  and  of  the 
labor  of  devoted  women  in  our  great  country  to  make  it  mean 
what  it  said.  As  I  spoke  I  remembered  my  father,  and  I  took  it 
off  and  gave'  it  to  him,  bidding  him  keep  it,  for  surely  few  men 
could  wear  it  so  worthily.  But  he  put  it  back  into  my  hand, 
thanking  me  with  a  faithful  grasp  of  his  own ;  he  could  not  take 
it  from  me,  he  said.  And  so  we  parted.  I  thought  with  a  pang 
of  remorse,  as  I  stood  in  the  doorway,  of  the  parting  bow  I  had 
forgotten,  and  turned  around  to  make  good  the  omission.  There 
stood  the  King  in  his  blue  uniform,  nodding  so  mildly  to  me,  with 
a  smile  so  full  of  kindness,  that  I  —  why,  I  just  nodded  back  and 
waved  my  hand.  It  was  very  improper,  I  dare  say ;  perfectly 
shocking;  but  never  was  heartier  greeting  to  king.  I  meant 
every  bit  of  it. 

The  next  year  he  sent  me  his  cross  of  gold  for  the  one  of  silver 


THE  AMERICAN  MADE 


277 


I  offered  him.  I  wear  it  gladl}',  for  the  knighthood  it  confers 
pledges  to  the  defence  of  womanhood  and  of  little  children,  and 
if  I  cannot  ^ield  lance  and  sword  as  the  king^s  men  of  old,  I  can 
wield  the  pen.  It  may  be  that  in  the  providence  of  God  the 
shedding  of  ink  in  the  cause  of  right  shall  set  the  world  farther 
ahead  in  our  day  than  the  blood-letting  of  all  the  ages  past. 

These  I  could  not  forego.  Neither,  when  friends  gathered  in 
the  King^s  Daughters'  Settlement  on  our  silver  wedding  day, 
and  with,  loving  w^ords  gave  to  the  new  house  my  name,  could 
I  say  them  nay.  It  stands,  that  house,  within  a  stone's  throw 
of  many  a  door  in  which  I  sat  friendless  and  forlorn,  trying  to 
hide  from  the  policeman  who  w^ould  not  let  me  sleep;  mthin 
hail  of  the  Bend  of  the  wicked  past,  atoned  for  at  last;  of  the 
Bowery  boarding-house  where  I  lay  senseless  on  the  stairs  after 
my  first  day's  work  in  the  newspaper  office,  starved  well-nigh  to 
death.  But  the  memory  of  the  old  days  has  no  sting.  Its 
message  is  one  of  hope ;  the  house  itself  is  the  kej-note.  It  is 
the  pledge  of  a  better  day,  of  the  defeat  of  the  slum  with  its 
helpless  heredity  of  despair.  That  shall  damn  no  longer  lives 
yet  unborn.  Children  of  God  are  we !  that  is  our  challenge  to 
the  slum,  and  on  earth  we  shall  claim  yet  our  heritage  of  light. 

Of  home  and  neighborhness  restored  it  is  the  pledge.  The 
want  of  them  makes  the  great  gap  in  the  city  life  that  is  to  be  our 
modern  civic  lite.  With  the  home  preserved  we  ma}^  look  for- 
ward without  fear ;  there  is  no  cjuestion  that  can  be  asked  of  the 
Republic  to  which  we  shall  not  find  the  answer.  We  may  not 
always  agree  as  to  what  is  right ;  but,  starting  there,  we  shall 
be  seeking  the  right,  and  seeking  we  shall  find  it.  Ruin  and 
disaster  are  at  the  end  of  the  road  that  starts  from  the  slum. 

Perhaps  it  is  easy  for  me  to  preach  contentment.  With  a 
mother  who  prays,  a  wife  who  fills  the  house  with  song,  and  the 
laughter  of  happ}^  children  about  me,  all  my  dreams  come  true 
or  coming  true,  why  should  I  not  be  content?    In  fact,  I  know 


278         THE  MAKING  OF  AN  AMERICAN 


of  no  better  equipment  for  making  them  come  true :  faith  in  God 
to  make  all  things  possible  that  are  right;  faith  in  man  to  get 
them  done ;  fun  enough  in  between  to  keep  them  from  spoiling 
or  running  off  the  track  into  useless  crankery.  An  extra  good 
sprinkhng  of  that !  The  longer  I  Uve  the  more  I  think  of  humor 
as  in  truth  the  saving  sense.  A  civil-service  examination  to  hit 
home  might  weU  be  one  to  make  sure  the  man  could  appreciate 
a  good  story.  For  all  editors  I  would  have  that  kind  made 
compulsory.  Here  is  one  chiding  me  in  his  paper,  —  oh !  a 
serious  paper  that  calls  upon  parents  to  'insist  that  children's 
play  shall  be  play  and  not  loafing"  and  not  be  allowed  to  obscure 
their  more  serious  responsibiUties,"  —  chiding  me  for  encourag- 
ing truancy!  ^^We  are  quite  sure/'  he  writes,  ''that  no  really 
well-brought  up  and  well-disposed  boy  ever  thinks  of  such  a 
thing.''  Perish  the  thought !  And  yet,  if  he  should  take  the 
notion,  —  you  never  can  tell  with  the  devil  so  busy  all  the  time, 
—  there's  the  barrel  they  kept  us  in  at  school  when  we  were  bad  ; 
I  told  of  it  before.  Putting  the  lid  on  was  a  sure  preventive; 
with  our  little  short  legs  we  couldn't  climb  out.  Don't  think 
I  recommend  it.  It  just  comes  to  me,  the  way  things  will.  It 
was  held  to  be  a  powerful  means  of  bringing  children  up  ''well 
disposed"  in  those  days. 

Looking  back  over  thirty  years  it  seems  to  me  that  never  had 
man  better  a  time  than  I.  Enough  of  the  editor  chaps  there 
were  always  to  keep  up  the  spirits.  The  hardships  people  write 
to  me  about  were  not  worth  while  mentioning ;  and  anyway  they 
had  to  be,  to  get  some  of  the  crankery  out  of  me,  I  guess.  But 
the  friendships  endure.  For  all  the  rebuffs  of  my  life  they  have 
more  than  made  up.  When  I  think  of  them,  of  the  good  men 
and  women  who  have  called  me  friend,  I  am  filled  with  wonder 
and  gratitude.  I  know  the  editor  of  the  heavy  responsibilities 
would  not  have  approved  of  all  of  them.  Even  the  police  might 
not  have  done  it.    But,  then,  pohce  approval  is  not  a  certificate 


THE  AMERICAN  MADE 


279 


of  character  to  one  who  has  lived  the  best  part  of  his  life  in 
Mulberr}^  Street.  They  drove  Harr>^  Hill  out  of  the  business 
after  milking  him  dry.  Harry  Hill  kept  a  dive,  but  he  was  a 
square  man  ;  his  word  was  as  good  as  his  bond.  He  was  hardly 
a  model  citizen,  but  in  a  hard  winter  he  kept  half  the  ward  from 
starving;  his  latch-string  himg  out  always  to  those  in  need. 
Harry  was  no  particular  friend  of  mine ;  I  mention  him  as  a  type 
of  some  to  whom  objection  might  be  made. 

But  then  the  police  would  certainly  disapprove  of  Dr.  Park- 
hurst,  whom  I  am  glad  to  call  by  the  name  of  friend.  They 
might  even  object  to  Bishop  Potter,  whose  friendship  I  return 
with  a  warmth  that  is  nowise  dampened  by  his  disapproval  of 
reporters  as  a  class.  There  is  where  the  Bishop  is  mistaken ; 
we  are  none  of  us  infallible,  and  what  a  good  thing  it  is  that  we 
are  not.  Think  of  ha\'ing  an  infallible  friend  to  live  alongside 
of  always  !  How  long  could  you  stand  it  ?  We  were  not  infal- 
lible, James  Tanner !  —  called  Corporal  b}''  the  world,  Jim  by 
us  —  when  we  sat  together  in  the  front  seats  of  the  old  Eigh- 
teenth Street  Church  under  Brother  Simmons's  teaching.  Far 
from  it ;  but  we  were  willing  to  learn  the  ways  of  grace,  and  that 
was  something.  Had  he  only  staj^ed  !  Your  \vife  mothered  my 
Elisabeth  when  she  was  homesick  in  a  strange  land.  I  have 
never  forgotten  it.  And  you  could  pass  civil  ser\ice,  Jim,  on  the 
story  I  spoke  of.  I  would  be  willing  to  let  the  rest  go,  if  you  will 
promise  to  forget  about  that  bottle  of  champagne.  It  was 
your  doings,  anyhow,  you  know. 

Amos  Ensign,  I  did  not  give  you  the  credit  you  should  have 
had  for  our  success  in  Mulberr^'■  Street  in  the  early  days,  but  I 
give  it  to  you  now.  You  were  loyal  and  good,  and  you  have 
stayed  a  reporter,  a  living  denial  of  the  charge  that  our  profes- 
sion is  not  as  good  as  the  best.  Dr.  Jane  Elizabeth  Robbins, 
you  told  me,  when  I  was  hesitating  over  the  first  chapters  of 
these  reminiscences,  to  take  the  short  cut  and  put  it  aU  in,  and 


280 


THE  MAKING  OF  AN  AMERICAN 


I  did,  because  you  are  as  wise  as  you  are  good.  I  have  told  it 
all,  and  now,  manlike,  I  will  serve  you  as  your  sex  has  been 
served  from  the  dawn  of  time :  the  woman  did  it !  yours  be  the 
blame.  Anthony  Ronne,  dear  old  chum  in  the  days  of  adversity ; 
Max  Fischel,  trusty  friend  of  the  years  in  Mulberry  Street,  who 
never  said  ''can't"  once  —  you  always  knew  a  way;  Brother 
W.  W.  J.  Warren,  faithful  in  good  and  in  evil  report ;  General 
C.  T.  Christensen,  whose  compassion  passeth  understanding, 
for,  though  a  banker,  you  bore  with  and  befriended  me,  who  can- 
not count;  Mrs.  Josephine  Shaw  Lowell,  my  civic  conscience 
ever;  John  H.  Mulchahey,  without  whose  wise  counsels  in  the 
days  of  good  government  and  reform  the  battle  wdth  the  slum 
would  surely  have  gone  against  us;  Jane  Addams  and  Mrs. 
Emmons  Blaine,  leaven  that  shall  yet  leaven  the  whole  unsightly 
lump  out  yonder  by  the  western  lake  and  let  in  the  light ;  A.  S. 
Solomons,  Silas  McBee,  Mrs.  Roland  C.  Lincoln,  LiHan  D.  Wald, 
Felix  Adler,  Endicott  Peabody,  Lyman  Abbott,  Louise  Beymour 
Houghton,  Jacob  H.  Schiff,  John  Finley,  —  Jew  and  Gentile 
who  taught  me  why  in  this  world  personal  conduct  and  personal 
character  count  ever  for  most,  —  my  love  to  you  all !  It  is  time 
I  am  off  and  away.  William  McCloy,  the  next  time  1  step  into 
your  canoe  and  upset  it,  and  you  turn  that  smiliag  countenance 
upon  me,  up  to  your  neck  in  the  lake,  I  will  surely  drown  you. 
You  are  too  good  for  this  world.  J.  Evarts  Tracy,  host  of  my 
happy  days  on  restful  Wahwaskesh !  I  know  of  a  certain  hole 
in  under  a  shelving  rock  upon  which  the  partridge  is  wont  to 
hatch  her  young,  where  lies  a  bigger  bass  than  ever  you  tired  out 
according  to  the  rules  of  your  beloved  sport,  and  I  will  have  him 
if  I  have  to  charm  him  with  honeyed  words  and  a  bean-pole. 
And  Ainslie  shall  cook  him  to  a  turn.  Make  haste  then  to  the 
feast ! 

Ahead  there  is  light.  Even  as  I  write  the  Uttle  ones  from 
Cherry  Street  are  playing  on  the  grass  under  my  trees.    The  time 


THE  AMERICAN  MADE 


281 


is  at  hand  when  we  shall  bring  to  them  in  their  slum  the  things 
which  we  must  now  bring  them  to  see,  and  then  the  slum  will  be 
no  more.  How  httle  we  grasp  the  meaning  of  it  all.  In  a  report 
of  the  Commissioner  of  Education  I  read  the  other  day  that 
of  kindergarten  children  in  an  Eastern  city  who  were  questioned 
63  per  cent  did  not  know  a  robin,  and  more  than  half  had  not 
seen  a  dandelion  in  its  yellow  glory.  And  yet  we  complain  that 
our  cities  are  misgoverned !  You  who  think  that  the  teaching 
of  ^^ci\'ics"  in  the  school  covers  it  all,  I  am  not  speaking  to  you. 
You  will  never  understand.  But  the  rest  of  you  who  are  mlling 
to  sit  with  me  at  the  feet  of  little  Molly  and  learn  from  her, 
listen:  She  was  poor  and  ragged  and  starved.  Her  home  was 
a  hovel.  We  were  debating,  some  good  women  who  knew  her  and 
I,  how  best  to  make  a  merry  Christmas  for  her,  and  my  material 
mind  hung  upon  clothes  and  boots  and  rubbers,  for  it  was  in 
Chicago.  But  the  \ision  of  her  soul  was  a  pair  of  red  shoes ! 
Her  heart  craved  them ;  aye,  brethren,  and  she  got  them.  Xot 
for  all  the  gold  in  the  Treasury  would  I  have  trodden  it  under  in 
pork  and  beans,  smothered  it  in  —  no,  not  in  rubber  boots, 
though  the  mud  in  the  city  by  the  lake  be  both  deep  and  black. 
They  were  the  window,  those  red  shoes,  through  which  her  little 
captive  soul  looked  out  and  yearned  for  the  beauty  of  God's 
great  world.  Could  I  forget  the  blue  boots  with  the  tassels 
which  I  worshi}'ped  in  my  boyhood?  Xay,  friends,  the  robin 
and  the  dandelion  we  must  put  back  into  those  barren  lives  if  we 
would  have  good  citizenship.  They  and  the  citizenship  are 
first  cousins.  We  robbed  the  children  of  them,  or  stood  by  and 
saw  it  done,  and  it  is  for  us  to  restore  them.  That  is  my  answer 
to  the  missionary  who  writes  to  ask  what  is  the  "  most  practical 
way  of  making  good  Christians  and  American  citizens''  out  of 
the  emigrants  who  sit  hea\y  on  her  conscience,  as  well  they  may. 
Christianity  without  the  robin  and  the  dandehon  is  never  going 
to  reach  dovTi  into  the  slum ;  American  citizenship  without 


282 


THE  MAKING  OF  AN  AMERICAN 


them  would  leave  the  slum  there,  to  dig  the  grave  of  it  and  of 
the  republic. 

Light  ahead  !  The  very  battle  that  is  now  waged  for  righteous- 
ness on  the  once  forgotten  East  Side  is  our  answer  to  the  cry  of 
the  young  who,  having  seen  the  light,  were  willing  no  longer  to 
Hve  in  darkness.  I  know,  for  I  was  one  of  the  committee  which 
Dr.  FeHx  Adler  called  together  in  response  to  their  appeal  a  year 
ago.  The  Committee  of  Fifteen  succeeded  to  its  work.  ''What 
does  it  all  help? "  the  doubting  Thomases  have  asked  a  half -score 
years,  watching  the  settlements  build  their  bridge*  of  hearts 
between  mansion  and  tenement,  and  hundreds  give  devoted 
lives  of  toil  and  sacrifice  to  make  it  strong  and  lasting ;  and  ever 
the  answer  came  back,  sturdily :  ''Wait  and  see  !  It  will  come." 
And  now  it  has  come.  The  work  is  bearing  fruit.  On  the  East 
Side  the  young  rise  in  rebellion  against  the  slum ;  on  the  West 
Side  the  League  for  Political  Education  runs  a  ball-ground". 
Omen  of  good  sense  and  of  victory!  So  the  country  is  safe. 
Wlien  we  fight  no  longer  for  the  poor,  but  with  the  poor,  the  slum 
is  taken  in  the  rear  and  beaten  already. 

The  world  moves.  The  Bend  is  gone ;  the  Barracks  are  gone ; 
Mulberry  Street  itself  as  I  knew  it  so  long  is  gone.  Cat  Alley, 
whence  came  the  deputation  of  ragamuffins  to  my  office  demand- 
ing flowers  for  "the  lady  in  the  back,"  the  poor  old  scrubwoman 
who  lay  dead  in  her  dark  basement,  went  when  the  Elm  Street 
widening  let  light  into  the  heart  of  our  block.  The  old  days  are 
gone.  I  myseK  am  gone.  A  year  ago  I  had  warning  that  "the 
night  Cometh  when  no  man  can  work,"  and  Mulberry  Street 
knew  n.e  no  more.  I  am  still  a  young  man,  not  far  past  fifty, 
and  I  have  much  I  would  do  yet.  But  what  if  it  were  ordered 
otherwise  ?  I  have  been  very  happy.  No  man  ever  had  so  good 
a  time.    Should  I  not  be  content? 

I  dreamed  a  beautiful  dream  in  my  youth,  and  I  woke  and 
found  it  true.    My  silver  bride  they  called  her  just  now.  The 


THE  AMERICAN  MADE 


283 


frost  is  upon  my  head,  indeed  ;  hers  winter  has  not  touched  with 
its  softest  breath.  Her  footfall  is  the  lightest,  her  laugh  the 
merriest  in  the  house.  The  boys  are  all  in  love  with  their 
mother  :  the  girls  tyrannize  and  worship  her  together.  The 
cadet  corps  elects  her  an  honorary  member,  for  no  stouter 
champion  of  the  flag  is  in  the  land.  Sometimes  when  she  sings 
vnth  the  children  I  sit  and  Usten;  and  with  her  voice  there  comes 
to  me  as  an  echo  of  the  long  past  the  words  in  her  letter,  that 
blessed  first  letter  in  which  she  wrote  dowTi  the  text  of  all  my 
after-life:  '^We  vnW  strive  together  for  all  that  is  noble  and 
good.''  So  she  saw  her  duty  as  a  true  American,  and  aye !  she 
has  kept  the  pledge. 

But  here  comes  our  daughter  with  little  Virginia  to  visit  her 
grandpapa.  Oh,  the  Uttle  vixen!  Then  where  is  his  peace? 
God  bless  the  child! 

I  have  told  the  story  of  the  making  of  an  American.  There 
remains  to  tell  how  I  found  out  that  he  was  made  and  finished 
at  last.  It  was  when  I  went  back  to  see  my  mother  once  more 
and,  wandering  about  the  country  of  my  childhood's  memories, 
had  come  to  the  city  of  Elsinore.  There  I  fell  ill  of  a  fever  and 
lay  many  weeks  in  the  house  of  a  friend  upon  the  shore  of  the 
beautiful  Oeresund.  One  day  when  the  fever  had  left  me  they 
rolled  my  bed  into  a  room  overlooking  the  sea.  The  sunhght 
danced  upon  the  waves,  and  the  distant  mountains  of  Sweden 
were  blue  against  the  horizon.  Ships  passed  under  full  sail  up 
and  down  the  great  waterway  of  the  nations.  But  the  sunshine 
and  the  peaceful  day  bore  no  message  to  me.  I  lay  moodily 
picking  at  the  coverlet,  sick  and  discouraged  and  sore  —  I 
hardly  knew  why  myself.  Until  all  at  once  there  sailed  past, 
close  inshore,  a  ship  flying  at  the  top  the  flag  of  freedom,  blown 
out  on  the  breeze  till  every  star  in  it  shone  bright  and  clear. 
That  moment  I  knew.    Gone  were  illness,  discouragement,  and 


284 


THE  MAKING  OF  AN  AMERICAN 


gloom !  Forgotten  weakness  and  suffering,  the  cautions  of 
doctor  and  nurse.  I  sat  up  in  bed  and  shouted,  laughed  and 
cried  by  turns,  waving  my  handkerchief  to  the  flag  out  there. 
They  thought  I  had  lost  my  head,  but  I  told  them  no,  thank 
God  !  I  had  found  it,  and  my  heart,  too,  at  last.  I  knew  then 
that  it  was  my  flag ;  that  my  children's  home  was  mine,  indeed  ; 
that  I  also  had  become  an  American  in  truth.  And  I  thanked 
God,^and,  like  unto  the  man  sick  of  the  palsy,  arose  from  my 
bed  and  went  home,  healed. 


printed  in  the  United  States  of  America. 


AWRY 


1 


